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https://archive.org/details/jewishchildrenOOshol_ 2 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


NEW BORZOI NOVELS 
SPRING, 1922 


WANDERERS 
Knut 2 2 

MEN OF AFFAIRS 
Roland Pertwee 

THE FAIR REWARDS 
Thomas Beer 

I WALKED IN ARDEN 
Jack Crawford 

GUEST THE ONE-EYED 
Gunnar Gunnarsson 

THE GARDEN PARTY 
Katherine Mansfeld 

THE LoNGesT JOURNEY 
2. M. Forster 

Tue 9001 oF A CHILD 
Edwin Bjérkman 

CYTHEREA 
Joseph Hergesheimer 

EXPLORERS OF THE DAWN 
Mazo de la Roche 

THE WHITE KAMI 

Edward Alden Jewell 


JEWISH CHILDREN 


TRANSLATED FROM THE YIDDISH OF 
“SHALOM ALEICHEM” 2.0% 
By HANNAH BERMAN 


Cas 


new york ALFRED: A: KNOPF 3 wemxxn 


ALFRED A KNOPF, Tre. 


be ae וי‎ Published January, tons 


aa 
: 


Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballow 00. Biighad 
Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Oo., New 
- Bound by the H. Wolf א שי‎ pine York, Nk 


j; 
7 ah 1 A 


Haas א‎ | MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF 


106 
119 
131 
143 
153 
178 
187 
210 
241 


CONTENTS 


AGE FROM THE “SONG OF SONGS” 


-ASSOVER IN A VILLAGE. AN IDYLL 


‘a JREENS FOR “SHEVUOUS” 

- ANOTHER PAGE FROM THE “SoNG oF SONGS” 
A Pity ror THE Livinc 

Tue TABERNACLE 

[HE Deap CITRON 

ISSsHUR THE BEADLE 

BOAZ THE TEACHER 


tHE SPINNING- 1 2 
HE POCKET-KNIFE 


JN THE FIDDLE 
"1115 NIGHT 


5 490959 


זי :2 


ISH CHIL 


DREN = { 


A Page from the “Song of 
* Songs” 


Busie is a name; it is the short for Esther-Liba: 
Libusa: Busie. She is a year older than I, perhaps 
two years. And both of us together are no more 
than twenty years old. Now, if you please, sit down 
and think it out for yourself. How old am I, and 
how oldis she? But, it is no matter.’ I will rather 
tell you her history in a few words. 

My older brother, Benny, lived in a village. He 
had a mill. 116 could shoot with a gun, ride on a 
horse, and swim like a devil. One summer he was 
bathing in the river, and was drowned. Of him 
they said the proverb had been invented: “All 
good swimmers are drowned.” He left after him 
the mill, twp horses, a young widow, and one child. 
The mill was neglected; the horses were sold; the 
young widow married again, and went away, some- 
where, far; and the child was brought to us. 

The child was Busie. 


That my father loves Busie as if she were his 
own child; and that my mother frets over her as 
if she were an only daughter, is readily understood. 
They look upon her as their comfort in their great 


9 


Jewish Children 


sorrow. AndI? Why is it that when I come from 
“cheder,”’ and do not find Busie I cannot eat? And 
when Busie comes in, there shines a light in every 
corner. When Busie talks to me, 1 drop my eyes. 
And when she laughs at me I weep. And when 
SHG MGT: 


I waited long for the dear good Feast of Pass- 
over. I would be free then. I would play with 
Busie in nuts, run about in the open, go down the 
hill to the river, and show her the ducks in the water. 
When I tell her, she does not believe me. She 
laughs. She never believes me. ‘That is, she says 
nothing, but she laughs. And I hate to be laughed 
at. She does not believe that I can climb to the 
highest tree, if I like. She does not believe that I 
can shoot, if I have anything to shoot with. When 
the Passover comes—the dear good Passover—and 
we can go out into the free, open air, away from my 
father and mother, I shall show her such tricks that 
she will go wild. 


The dear good Passover has come. 

They dress us both in kingly clothes. Every- 
thing we wear shines and sparkles and glitters. I 
look at Busie, and I think of the ‘Song of Songs” 
that I learnt for the Passover, verse by verse: 

‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; béhold, thou art 
fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks; thy hair 
is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead. 

“Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even 
10 


A Page from The “Song of Songs” 


shorn, which come up from the washing; whereof 
every one bear twins, and none is barren among them. 

‘Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy 
speech is comely; thy temples are like a piece of 
pomegranate within thy locks.” 

Tell me, please, why is it that when one looks at 
Busie one is reminded of the “Song of Songs’? 
And when one reads the ‘‘Song of 5029 Busie 
rises to one’s mind? 


A beautiful Passover eve, bright and warm. 

“Shall we go?” asks Busie. And 1 am all afire. 
My mother does not spare the nuts. She fills our 
pockets. But she makes us promise that we will not 
crack a single one before the '8660/. We may play 
' with them as much as we like. We run off. The 
nuts rattle as we go. It is beautiful and fine out of 
doors. ‘The sun is already high in the heavens, and 
is looking down on the other side of the town. 
Everything is broad and comfortable and soft and 
free, around and about. In places, on the hill the 
other side of the synagogue, one sees a little blade 
of grass, fresh and green and living. Screaming and 
fluttering their wings, there fly past us, over our 
heads, a swarm of young swallows. And again I 
am reminded of the “Song of Songs” I learnt at 
school: ¥ 

‘The flowers appear on the earth; the time of 
the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the 
turtle is heard in our land.” 

I feel curiously light. I imagine I have wings, 
and can rise up and fly away. 


11 


Jewish Children 


A curious noise comes from the town, a roaring, 
a rushing, a tumult. In a moment the face of the 
world is changed for me. Our farm is a courtyard, 
our house is a palace. I am a prince, Busie a 
princess. ‘The logs of wood that lie at our door are 
the cedars and firs of the ‘‘Song of Songs.”” The 
cat that is warming herself in the sun near the door is 
a roe, or a young hart; and the hill on the other side 
of the synagogue is the mountain of Lebanon. The 
women and the girls who are washing and scrubbing . 
and making everything clean for the Passover are 
the daughters of Jerusalem. 

Everything, everything is from the “Song of 
Songs.” 

I walk about with my hands in my pockets. ‘The 
nuts shake and rattle. Busie walks beside me, step 
by step. 1 cannot go slowly. I am carried along. 
I want to fly, to soar through the air like an eagle. 
1 let myself go. ‘Busie follows me. I jump from 
one log of wood to the other. Busie jumps after 
me. l[amup;sheisup. Iam down; she is down. 
Who will tire first? ‘How long is this to last?” 
asks Busie. And 1 answer her in the words of the 
“Song of Songs”: ‘‘ ‘Until the day break, and the 
shadows flee away.’ Ba! Ba! Ba! You are tired, 
and I am not.” 


I am glad that Busie does not know what I know. 
And I am sorry for her. My heart aches for her. 
I imagine she is sorrowful. That is her nature. 
12 


A Page from The “Song of Songs” 


She is glad and joyous, and suddenly she sits down in 
a corner and weeps silently. My mother comforts 
her, and my father showers kisses on her. But, it 
is useless. Busie weeps until she is exhausted. For 
whom? For her father who died so young? Or 
for her mother who married again and went off with- 
out a good-bye? Ah, her mother! When one 
speaks of her mother to her, she turns all colours. 
She does not believe in her mother. She does not 
say an unkind word of her, but she does not believe 
in her. Of that I am sure. I cannot bear to see 
Busie weeping. I sit down beside her, and try to 
distract her thoughts from herself. 


I keep my hands in my pockets, rattle my nuts, and 
say to her: 

‘Guess what I can do if I like.” 

“What can you do?” 

“Tf 1 like, all your nuts will belong to me.” 

“Will you win them off me?” 

‘We shall not even begin to play.” 

‘Then you will take them from me?” 

‘No, they will come to me of themselves.” 

She lifts her beautiful blue eyes to me—her 
beautiful, blue, “Song of Songs” eyes. 1 say to her: 

“You think I am jesting. Little fool, I know 
certain magic words.”’ 

She opens her eyes still wider. I feel big. I 
explain myself to her, like a great man, a hero: 

“We boys know everything. There is a boy at 
school. Sheika the blind one, we call him. He is 
blind of one eye. 116 knows everything in the world, 


13 


Jewish Children 


even ‘Kaballa’ Do you know what ‘Kaballa’ is?” 

“No. How am I to know?” 

I am in the seventh heaven because 1 can give her 
a lecture on “Kaballa.” 

“ ‘Kigballa,’ little fool, is a thing ‘that is useful. 
By means of ‘Kaballa’ 1 can make myself invisible 
to you, whilst I can see you. By means of ‘Kaballa’ 
I can draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall. 
By means of ‘Kabaila’ 1 can manage that we two 
shall rise up into the clouds, and even higher than 
the clouds.” 


To rise up in the air with Busie, by means of 
“Kaballa,’ into the clouds, and higher than the 
clouds, and fly with her far, far over the ocean—that 
was one of my best dreams. ‘There, on the other 
side of the ocean, live the dwarfs who are descended 
from the giants of King David’s time. The dwarfs 
who are, in reality, good-natured folks. ' They live 
on sweets and the milk of almonds, and play all day 
on little flutes, and dance all together in a ring, 
romping about. ‘They are afraid of nothing, and 
are fond of strangers. When a man comes to them 
from our world, they give him plenty to eat and 
drink, dress him in the finest garments, and load him 
with gold and silver ornaments. ‘Before he leaves, 
they fill his pockets with diamonds and rubies which 
are to be found in their streets like mud in ours. 

‘Like mud in the streets? Well!” said Busie to 
me when I had told her all about the dwarfs. 

‘Do you not believe it?” 

‘Do you believe 16?" 


14 


A Page from The “Song of Songs” 


“Why not?” 

“Where did you hear it?” 

“Where? At school.” 

“Ah! At school.” 

The sun sank lower and lower, tinting the sky with 
red gold. The gold was reflected in Busie’s eyes. 
They were bathed in gold. 


I want very much to surprise Busie with Sheika’s 
tricks which I can imitate by means of ‘“Kaballa.” 
But they do not surprise her. On the contrary, | 
think they amuse her. Why else does she show me 
her pearl-white teeth? Iam a little annoyed, and I 
say to her: 

“Maybe you do not believe me?” 

Busie laughs. 

‘‘Maybe you think I am boasting? Or that 1 am 
inventing lies out of my own head?” 

Busie laughs louder. Oh, in that case, I must 
show her. I know how. I say to her: 

‘The thing is that you do not know what ‘Kaballa’ 
means. If you knew what ‘Kaballa’ was you would 
not laugh. By means 01 ‘Kaballa,’ if I like, I can 
bring your mother here. Yes, yes! And if you beg 
hard of me, I will bring her this very night, riding 
on a stick.”’ 

All at once she stops laughing. A cloud settles 
on her beautiful face. And I imagine that the sun 
has disappeared. No more sun, no more day! I 
am, afraid I went a little too far. 1 had no right to 
pain her—to speak of her mother. 1 am sorry for 
the whole thing. I must wipe it out. I must ask 


15 


Jewish Children 


her forgiveness. 1 creep close to her. She turns 
away from me. 1 try to take her hand. I wish to 
say to her in the words of the “Song of Songs’’: 
“Return, return, O Shulamite!’ Busie!’’ Suddenly 
a voice called from the house: 

“Shemak! Shemak!” 

I am Shemak. My mother is calling me to go to 
the synagogue with father. 


To go to the synagogue with one’s father on the 
Passover eve—is there in the world a greater 
pleasure than that? ‘What is it worth to be dressed 
in new clothes from head to foot, and to show: off 
before one’s friends? ‘Then the prayers themselves 
—the first Festival evening prayer and blessing. 
Ah, how many luxuries has the good God prepared 
for his Jewish children. 

“Shemak! Shemak!” 

My mother has no time. 

‘Tam coming. 1 amcoming ina minute. I only 
want to say a word to Busie—no more than a word.” 

I confess to Busie that I told her lies. One can- 
not make people fly by means of “Kaballa.” One 
may fly one’s self. And I will show her, after the 
Festival, how I can fly. 1 will rise from this same 
spot on the logs, before her eyes, and in a moment 
reach the other side of the clouds. From there, I 
will turn a little to the right. You see, there all 


things end, and one comes upon the shore of the 
frozen ocean. 


16 


A Page from The “Song of Songs” 


Busie listens attentively. The sun is sending down 
its last rays, and kissing the earth. 

“What is the frozen sea?’ asks Busie. 

‘You don’t know what the frozen sea is? It is 
a sea whose waters are thick as liver and salt as 
brine. No ships can ride on it. When people fall 
into it, they can never get out again.” 

Busie looks at me with big eyes. 

‘‘Why should you go there?” 

‘Am 1 going, little fool? I fly over it like an 
eagle. Ina few minutes 1 shall be over the dry land 
and at the twelve mountains that spit fire. At the 
twelfth hill, at the very top, I shall come down and 
walk seven miles, until I come to a thick forest. 
I shall go in and out of the trees, until I come to a 
little stream. I shall swim across the water, and 
count seven times seven. A little old man with a 
long beard appears before me, and says to me: 
‘What is your request?’ 1 answer: ‘Bring me the 
queen’s daughter.’ ” 

“What queen’s daughter?” asks Busie. ‘And I 
imagine she is frightened. 

‘The queen’s daughter is the princess who was 
snatched away from under the wedding canopy and 
bewitched, and put into a palace of crystal seven 
years ago.” 

‘What has that to do with you?” 

“What do you mean by asking what it has to do 
with me? I must go and set her free.”’ 

‘You must set her free?” 


“Who else?” 
17 


Jewish Children 


“You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you 
need not.”’ 


Busie takes hold of my hand, and I feel her little 
white hand 18 0014. I look into her eyes, and I see in 
them the reflection of the red gold sun that is bid- 
ding farewell to the day—the first, bright, warm 
Passover day. The day dies by degrees. The sun 
goes out like a candle. The noises of the day are 
hushed. There is hardly a living soul in the street. 
In the little windows shine the lights of the festival 
candles that have just been lit. A curious, a holy 
stillness wraps us round, Busie and myself. We feel 
that our lives are fast merging in the solemn stillness 
of the festive evening. 


“Shemak! Shemak!’’ 


My mother calls me for the third time to go with 
my father to the synagogue. Do I not know my- 
self that I must go to prayers? I will sit here 
another minute—one minute, no more. ‘Busie hears 
my mother calling me. She tears her hand from 
mine, gets up, and drives me off. 

‘‘Shemak, you are called—you. Go, go! It is 
time. Go, go!” 

I get up to go. The day is dead. The sun is 
extinguished. Its gold beams have turned to blood. 
A little wind blows—a soft, cold wind. Busie tells 
metogo. 1 throw a last glance at her. She is not 
the same Busie. In my eyes she is different, on this | 
bewitching evening. The enchanted princess runs 


18 


A Page from The “Song of Songs” 


in my head. But Busie does not leave me time to 
think. She drives me off. I go. I turn round to 
look at the enchanted princess who is completely 
merged into the beautiful Passover evening. I 
stand like one bewitched. She points to me to go. 
And I imagine I hear her saying to me, in the words 
of the ‘‘Song of Songs”: 

‘Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a 
roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.” 


19 


Passover in 4 Village 


AN IDYLL 


Let winds blow. Let storms rage. 1466 6 
world turn upside down. The old oak, which has 
been standing since the creation of the world, and 
whose roots reach to God-knows-where—what does 
he care for winds? What are storms to him? 

The old tree is not a symbol—it is a living being, 
a man whose name is Nachman Veribivker of 
Veribivka. He is a tall Jew, broad-shouldered, a 
giant. The townspeople are envious of his 
strength, and make fun of him. ‘Peace be unto 
you. How isa Jew in health?’ Nachman knows he 
is being made fun of. 116 bends his shoulders so as 
to look more Jewish. But, it is useless. He is too 
big. 

Nachman has lived in the village a long time. 
‘Our ‘Lachman,’”’ the peasants call him. They 
look upon him as a good man, with brains. They 
like to have a chat with him. They follow his 
advice. “‘What are we to do about bread?” 
‘“‘Lachman”’ has an almanack, and he knows whether 
bread will be cheap or dear this year. He goes to 
the town, and so knows what is doing in the world. 

It would be hard to imagine Veribivka without 
20 


Passover in a Village 


Nachman. Not only was his father, Feitel, born in 
Veribivka, but his grandfather, Arya. He was a 
clever Jew, and a wit. 116 used to say that the 
village was called Veribivka because Arya 
Veribivker lived in it, because, before Veribivka was 
Veribivka, he, Arya Veribivker was already Arya 
Veribivker. That’s what his grandfather used to 
say. [he Jews of those times! 

And do you think Arya Veribivker said this for no 
reason? Arya was not an ordinary man who made 
jokes without reason. He meant that 6 
catastrophes of his day were Jewish tragedies. At 
that time they already talked of driving the Jews 
out of villages. And not only talked but drove them 
out. All the Jews were driven out, excepting Arya 
Veribivker. It may be that even the governor of 
the district could do nothing, because Arya 
Veribivker proved that according to the law, he 
could not be driven out. The Jews of those times! 


Certainly, if one has inherited such a privilege, 
and is independent, one can laugh at the whole 
world. What did our Nachman Veribivker care 
about uprisings, the limitations of the Pale, of 
Circulars? What did Nachman care about the 
wicked Gentile Kuratchka and the papers that he 
brought from the court? Kuratchka was a short 
peasant with short fingers. He wore a smock and 
high boots, and a silver chain and a watch like a 
gentleman. 116 was a clerk of the court. And 6 
ee all the papers which abused and vilified the 

ews. 


21 


Jewish Children 


Personally, Kuratchka was not a bad sort. He 
was a neighbour of Nachman and pretended to be a 
friend. When ‘tKuratchka had the _ toothache, 
Nachman gave him a lotion. When Kuratchka’s 
wife was brought to bed of a child, Nachman’s wife 
nursed her. But for some time, the devil knows 
why, Kuratchka had been reading the anti-Semitic 
papers, and he was an altered man. ‘Esau began 
to speak in him.” He was always bringing home 
news of new governors, new circulars from the min- 
ister, and new edicts against Jews. Each time, 
Nachman’s heart was torn. ‘But, he did not let the 
Gentile know of it. He listened to him with a smile, 
and held out the palm of his hand, as if to say, 
‘“When hair grows here.” 

Let governors change. Let ministers write circu- 
lars. What concern is it of Nachman Veribivker 
of Veribivka? 

Nachman lived comfortably. That is, not as 
comfortably as his grandfather Arya had lived. 
Those were different times. One might almost say 
that the whole of Veribivka belonged to Arya. He 
had the inn, the store, a mill, a granary. He made 
money with spoons and plates, as they say. But, 
that was long ago. ‘Today, all these things are 
gone. No more inn; no more store; no more 
granary. 106 question is why, in that case, does 
Nachman live in the village? Where then should 
he live? Inthe earth? Just let him sell his house, 
and he will be Nachman Veribivker no more. He 
will be a dependent, a stranger. As it is, he has at 
least a corner of his own, a house to live in, and a 
22 


Passover in a Village 


garden. His wife and daughters cultivate the 
garden. And if the Lord helps them, they have 
greens for the summer, and potatoes for the whole 
winter, until long after the Passover. But, one 
cannot live on potatoes alone. It is said that one 
wants bread with potatoes. And when there’s no 
bread, a Jew takes his stick, and goes through the 
village in search of business. He never comes home 
empty-handed. What the Lord destines, he buys— 
some old iron, a bundle of rags, an old sack, or else 
a hide. ‘The hide is stretched and dried, and 1s 
taken to the town, to Abraham-Elijah the tanner. 
And on all these one either earns or loses money. 

Abraham-Elijah the tanner, 2 man with a bluish 
nose and fingers as black as ink, laughs at Nachman, 
because he is so coarsened through living with 
/ Gentiles that he even speaks like them. 


Yes, coarsened. Nachman feels it himself. He 
grows coarser each year. Oh, if his grandfather 
Reb Arya—peace be unto him !—could see his grand- 
son. He had been a practical man, but had also 
been a scholar. He knew whole passages of the 
Psalms and the prayers off by heart. The Jews of 
those times! And what does he, Nachman, know? 
He can only just say his prayers. It’s well he knows 
that much. 1119 children will know even less. 
When he looks at his children, how they grow to the 
ceiling, broad and tall like himself, and can neither 
read nor write, his heart grows heavy. More than 
all, his heart aches for his youngest child, who is 
called Feitel, after his father. 116 was a clever 


23 


Jewish Children 


child, this Feitel. He was smaller in build, more 
refined, more Jewish than the others. And he had 
brains. 116 was shown the Hebrew alphabet once, 
in a prayer-book, and he never again confused one 
letter with the other. Such a fine child to grow up 
in a village amongst calves and pigs! 116 plays 
with Kuratchka’s son, Fedoka. 116 rides on the 
one stick with him. They both chase the one cat. 
They both dig the same hole. They do together 
everything children can do. Nachman is sorry to 
see his child playing with the Gentile child. It 
withers him, as if he were a tree that had been 
stricken by lightning. 


Fedoka is a smart little boy. He has a pleasant 
face and a dimpled chin, and flaxen hair. 116 loves 
Feitel, and Feitel does not dislike him. All the 
winter each child slept on his father’s stove. They 
went to the window and longed for one another. 
They seldom met. But now the long angry winter 
is over. ‘The black earth throws off her cold white 
mantle. The sun shines; and the wind blows. A 
little blade of grass peeps out. At the foot of the 
hill the little river murmurs. The calf inhales the 
soft air through distended nostrils. The cock 
closes one eye, and is lost in meditation. Every- 
thing around and about has come to life again. 
Everything rejoices. It is the Passover eve. 
Neither Feitel nor Fedoka can be kept indoors. 
They rush out into God’s world which has opened 
up for them both. They take each other’s hands, 
and fly down the hill that smiles at them—‘‘Come 


24 


Passover in a Village 


here, children!’ They leap towards the sun that 
greets them and calls them: ‘Come, children!” 
When they are tired of running, they sit down on 
God’s earth that knows no Jew and no Gentile, but 
whispers invitingly: “Children, come to me, to 106. 


They have much to tell each other, not having 
met throughout the whole winter. Feitel boasts 
that he knows the whole Hebrew alphabet. Fedoka 
boasts that he has a whip. Feitel boasts that it is 
the eve of Passover. ‘They have “matzos’ for the 
whole festival and wine. ‘‘Do you remember, 
Fedoka,: 1 * gave "You a ‘“maizo’ last’ year?” 
““Matzo,’”’ repeats Fedoka. A smile overspreads 
his pleasant face. It seems he remembers the taste 
of the “matzo.” ‘Would you like to have some 
‘matzo’ now, fresh ‘matzo’? Is it necessary to ask 
such a question? ‘“Then come with me,” says Feitel, 
pointing up the hill which smiled to them invitingly. 
They climbed the hill. They gazed at the warm sun 
through their fingers. They threw themselves on 
the damp earth which smelled so fresh. Feitel drew 
out from under his blouse a whole fresh, white 
“matzo,” covered with holes on both sides. Fedoka 
licked his fingers in advance. Feitel broke the 
“matzo” in halves, and gave one half to his friend. 
‘What do you say to the ‘matzo,’ Fedoka?”” What 
could Fedoka say when his mouth was stuffed with 
“matzo” that crackled between his teeth, and melted 
under his tongue like snow? One minute, and there 
was no more “matzo.” “All gone?’ 2 
threw his grey eyes at Feitel’s blouse as a cat looks 


25 


Jewish Children 


at butter. ‘Want more?” asked Feitel, looking at 
Fedoka through his sharp black eyes. What a 
question! ‘Then wait a while,” said Feitel. 
“Next year you'll get more.” They both laughed 
at the joke. And without a word, as if they, had 
already arranged it, they threw themselves on the 
ground, and rolled down the hill like balls, quickly, 
quickly downwards. 


At the bottom of the hill they stood up, and 
looked at the murmuring river that ran away to the 
left. ‘They turned to the right, going further and 
further over the broad fields that were not yet green 
in all places, but showed signs of being green soon— 
that did not yet smell of grass, but would smell of 
grass soon. They walked and walked in silence 
bewitched by the loveliness of the earth, under the 
bright, smiling sun. They did not walk, but swam. 
They did not swim, but flew. They flew like birds 
that sweep in the soft air of the lovely world which 
the Lord has created for all living things. Hush! 
They are at the windmill which belongs to the village 
elder. Once it belonged to Nachman Veribivker. 
Now it belongs to the village elder whose name is 
Opanas—a cunning Gentile with one ear-ring, who 
owns a “‘samovar.’ Opanas is a rich Epicurean. 
Along with the mill he has a store—the same store 
which once belonged to Nachman Veribivker. He 
took both the mill and the store from the Jew by 
cunning. 

The mill went round in its season, but this day it 
was still. There was no wind. A curious Passover 


26 


Passover in a Village 


eve without winds. That the mill was not working 
was so much the better for Feitel and Fedoka. 
They could see the mill itself. And there was much 
to see in the mill. But to them the mill was not so 
interesting as the sails, and the wheel which turns 
them whichever way the wind blows. ‘They sat 
down near the mill, and talked. It was one of 
those conversations which have no beginning and no 
end. Feitel told stories of the town to which his 
father had once taken him. 116 was at the fair. 
He saw shops. Not a single shop as in Veribivka, 
but a lot of shops. And in the evening his father 
took him to the synagogue. His father had 
“Yahrzeit’ after his father. ‘‘That means after my 
grandfather,’ explained Feitel. ‘‘Do you under- 
stand, or do you not?” 

Fedoka might have understood, but he was not 
listening. He interrupted with a story that had 
nothing to do with what Feitel was talking about. 
He told Feitel that last year he saw a bird’s nest in 
a high tree. 116 tried to reach it, but could not. 
He tried to knock it down with a stick, but could not. 
He threw stones at the nest, until he brought down 
two tiny, bleeding fledglings. 

“You killed them?” asked Feitel, fearfully, and 
made a wry face. 

“Little ones,” replied Fedoka. 

‘But, they were dead?” 

“Without feathers, yellow beaks, little 4 
bellies.”’ 

“But killed, but killed!” 


27 


Jewish Children 


It was rather late when Feitel and Fedoka saw by 
the sun in the heavens that it was time to go home. 
Feitel had forgotten that it was the Passover eve. 
He remembered then that his mother had to wash 
him, and dress him in his new trousers. He jumped 
up and flew home, Fedoka after him. They both 
flew home, gladly and joyfully. And in order that 
one should not be home before the other, they held 
hands, flying like arrows from bows. When they 
got to the village, this was the scene which con- 
fronted them :— 

Nachman Veribivker’s house was surrounded by 
peasants, men and women, boys and girls. ‘The 
clerk, Kuratchka, and Opanas the village elder and 
his wife, and the magistrate and the policeman—all 
were there, talking and _ shouting together. 
Nachman and his wife were in the middle of the 
crowd, arguing and waving their hands. Nachman 
was bent low and was wiping the perspiration from 
his face with both hands. By his side stood his 
older children, gloomy and downcast. Suddenly, 
the whole picture changed. Some one pointed to 
the two children. The whole crowd, including the 
village elder and the magistrate, the policeman and 
the clerk, stood still, like petrified. Only Nachman 
looked at the people, straightened out his back, and 
laughed. His wife threw out her hands and began 
to weep. 

The village elder and the clerk and the magistrate 
and their wives pounced on the children. 

‘‘Where were you, you so-and-so?” 

‘Where were we? We were down by the mill.” 


28 


Passover in a Village 


The two friends, Feitel as well as Fedoka, got 
punished without knowing why. 

Feitel’s father flogged him with his cap. “A boy 
should know.” What should a boy know? Out of | 
pity his mother took him from his father’s hands. 
She gave him a few smacks on her own account, and 
at once washed him and dressed him in his new 
trousers—the only new garment he had for the 
Passover. She sighed. Why? Afterwards, he 
heard his father saying to his mother: ‘‘May the 
Lord help us to get over this Festival in peace. The 
Passover ought to have gone before it came.” 
Feitel could not understand why the Passover should 
have gone before it came. 116 worried himself 
about this. He did not understand why his father 
had flogged him, and his mother smacked him. He 
did not understand what sort of a Passover eve it 
was this day in the world. 


If Feitel’s Jewish brains could not solve the 
problems, certainly Fedoka’s peasant brains could 
not. First of all his mother took hold of him by 
the flaxen hair, and pulled it. Then she gave him a 
few good smacks inthe face. ‘These he accepted like 
a philosopher. He was used to them. And he 
heard his mother talking with the peasants. They 
told curious tales of a child that the Jews of the 
town had enticed on the Passover eve, hidden in a 
cellar a day and a night, and were about to make 
away with, when his cries were heard by passers-by. 


29 


Jewish Children 
They rescued him. He had marks on his body— 


four marks, placed like a cross. 

A cunning peasant-woman with a red face told 
this tale. And the other women shook their shawl- 
covered heads, and crossed themselves. Fedoka 
could not understand why the women looked at him 
when they were talking. And what had the tale to 
do with him and Feitel? Why had his mother 
pulled his flaxen hair and boxed his ears? He did 
not care about these. 116 was used to them. 6 
only wanted to know why he had had such a good 
share that day. 


“Well?” | Feitel heard his father remark to his 
mother immediately after the Festival. His face 
was shining as if the greatest good fortune had 
befallen him. ‘Well? You fretted yourself to 
death. You were afraid. A woman remains a 
woman. Our Passover and their Easter have gone, 
and nothing.”’ | 

“Thank God,” replied his-mother. And Feitel 
could not understand what his mother had feared. 
And why were they glad that the Passover was gone? 
Would it not have been better if the Passover had 
been longer and longer? 

Feitel met Fedoka outside the door. He could 
not contain himself, but told him everything—how 
they had prayed, and how they had eaten. Oh, how 
they had eaten! 116 told him how nice all the 
Passover dishes were, and how sweet the wine. 
Fedoka listened attentively, and cast his eyes on 
Feitel’s blouse. He was still thinking of “matzo.” 


30 


Passover in a Village 


Suddenly there was a scream, and a cry in a high- 
pitched soprano: 

‘“Fedoka, Fedoka!”’ 

It was his mother calling him in for supper. 
But Fedoka did not hurry. 116 thought she would 
not pull his hair now. First of all, he had not been 
at the mill. Secondly, it was after the Passover. 
After the Passover there was no need to be afraid 
of the Jews. 116 stretched himself on the grass, on 
his stomach, propping up his white head with his 
hands. Opposite him lay Feitel, his black head 
propped up by his hands. ‘The sky is blue. ‘The 
sun is warm. ‘The little wind fans one and plays 
with one’s hair. ‘The little calf stands close by. 
The cock is also near, with his wives. The two 
heads, the black and the white, are close together. 
The children talk and talk and talk, and cannot 
finish talking 


Nachman Veribivker is not at home. Early in 
the morning he took his stick, and let himself go 
over the village, in search of business. He stopped 
at every farm, bade the Gentiles good-morning, 
calling each one by name, and talked with them on 
every subject in the world. But he avoided all 
reference to the Passover incident, and never even 
hinted at his fears of the Passover. Before going 
away, he said: ‘‘Perhaps, friend, you have something 
you would like to sell?” ‘‘Nothing, ‘Lachman,’ 
nothing.” ‘Old iron, rags, an old sack, or a hide?” 
“Do not be offended, ‘Lachman,’ there is nothing. 
Bad times!’ “Bad times? You drank everything, 


31 


Jewish Children 


maybe. Such a festival!” ‘Who drank? What 
drank? Bad times.” 

The Gentile sighed. Nachman also sighed. 
They talked of different things. Nachman would 
not have the other know that he came only on 
business. He left that Gentile, and went to another, 
to a third, until he came upon something. He would 
not return home empty-handed. 

Nachman Veribivker, loaded and _ perspiring, 
tramped home, thinking only of one problem—how 
much he was going to gain or lose that day. He 
has forgotten the Passover eve incident. He has 
forgotten the fears of the Passover. The 
clerk, Kuratchka, and his governors and circulars 
have gone clean out of the Jew’s head. 

Let winds blow. Let storms rage. Let the 
world turn upside down. ‘The old oak which has 
been standing since the creation of the world, and 
whose roots reach to God-knows-where—what does 
he care for winds? What are storms to him? 


32 


Elijah the Prophet 


It is not good to be an only son, to be fretted 
over by father and mother—to be the only one left 
out of seven. Don’t stand here. Don’t go there. 
Don’t drink that. Don’t eat the other. Cover up 
your throat. Hide your hands. Ah, it is not good 
—not good at all to be an only son, and a rich man’s 
son into the bargain. My father is a money 
changer. He goes about amongst the shopkeepers 
with a bag of money, changing copper for silver, and 
silver for copper. That is why his fingers are 
always black, and his nails broken. He works very 
hard. Each day, when he comes home, he is tired 
and broken down. .1 have no feet,’’ he complains 
to mother. “I have no feet, not even the sign of a 
foot.” No feet? It may be. But for that again 
he has a fine business. ‘That’s what the people say. 
And they envy us that we have a good business. 
Mother is satisfied. So am I. ‘‘We shall have a 
Passover this year, may all the children of Israel 
have the like, Father in Heaven!” 

That’s what my mother said, thanking God for 
the good Passover. And I also was thankful. 
But shall we ever live to see it—this same Passover? 

Passover has come at last—the dear sweet Pass- 
over. I was dressed as befitted the son of a man 


33 


א, 


Jewish Children 


of wealth—like a young prince. But what was the 
consequence? 1 was not allowed to play, or run 
about, lest I caught cold. I must not play with poor 
children. I was a wealthy man’s boy. Such nice 
clothes, and I had’ no one to show off before. 
I had a pocketful of nuts, and no one to play with. 

It is not good to be an only child, and fretted 
over—the only one left out of seven, and a wealthy 
man’s son into the bargain. 

My father put on his best clothes, and went off to 
the synagogue. Said my mother to me: “Do you 
know what? Lie down and have a sleep. You 
will then be able to sit up at the ‘Seder’ and ask 
the ‘four questions’!’”> Was 1 mad? Would I 0 
asleep before the “‘Seder’’? 

‘‘Remember, you must not sleep at the ‘Seder.’ 
If you do, Elijah the Prophet will come with a bag 
on his shoulders. On the two first nights of Pass- 
over, Elijah the Prophet goes about looking for 
those who have fallen asleep at the ‘Seder,’ and takes 
them away in his bag.” ... Ha! Ha! Will I 
fall asleep at the ‘Seder’? I? Not even if it were 


to last the whole night through, or even to broad + 


daylight. ‘“‘What happened last year, mother?” 
‘Last year you fell asleep, soon after the first 
blessing.”” ‘‘Why did Elijah the Prophet not come 
then with his bag?’ ‘Then you were very small, 
now you are big. ‘Tonight you must ask father 
the ‘four questions.’ ‘Tonight you must say with 
father—‘Slaves were we.’ Tonight, you must eat 
with us fish and soup and ‘Matzo’-balls. Hush, 
here is father, back from the synagogue.” 


34 


Elijah the Prophet 


‘Good ‘Yom-tov’!” 

‘Good ‘Yom-tov’ !” 

Thank God, father made the blessing over wine. 
I, too. Father drank the cup full of wine. So did 
I, a cup full, to the very dregs. ‘‘See, to the dregs,” 
said mother to father. To me she said: “A full 
cup of wine! You will drop off to sleep.” Ha! 
Ha! WillI fallasleep? Notevenif we are to sit up 
all the night, or even to broad daylight. ‘‘Well,” 
said my father, “how are you going to ask the ‘four 
questions’? How will you recite ‘Haggadah’? 
How will you sing with me—‘Slaves were we’ ?”’ 
My mother never took her eyes off me. She smiled 
and said: “You will fall asleep—fast asleep.” 
‘Oh, mother, mother, if you had eighteen heads, 
you would surely fall asleep, if some one sat opposite 
you, and sang in your ears: ‘Fall asleep, fall 
asleep’ !”’ 

Of course I fell asleep. 

I fell asleep, and dreamt that my father was 
already saying: “Pour out thy wrath.” My 
mother herself got up from the table, and went to 
open the door to welcome Elijah the Prophet. It 
would be a fine thing if Elijah the Prophet did come, 
as my mother had said, with a bag on his shoulders, 
and if he said to me: “‘Come, boy.’’ And who else 
would be to blame for this but my mother, with her 
“fall asleep, fall asleep.” And as I was thinking 
these thoughts, I heard the creaking of the door. 
My father stood up and cried: “Blessed art thou 
who comest in the name of the Eternal.” I looked 
towards the door. Yes, it was he. 116 came in 0 


35 


Jewish Children 


slowly and so softly that one scarcely heard him. ! 
He was a handsome man, Elijah the Prophet—an 
old man with a long grizzled beard reaching to his 
knees. His face was yellow and wrinkled, but it was 
handsome and kindly without end. And his eyes! 
Oh, what eyes! Kind, soft, joyous, loving, faithful 
eyes. He was bent in two, and leaned on a big, big 
stick. He had a bag on his shoulders. And 
silently, softly, he came straight to me. 

‘Now, little boy, get into my bag, and come.” 
So said to me the old man, but in a kind voice, and 
softly and sweetly. 

I asked him: ‘‘Where to?’ And he replied: 
“You will see later.” 1 did not want to go, and 
he said to me again: “Come.” And I began to 
argue with him. ‘How can 1 go with you when I 
am a wealthy man’s son?” Said he tome: ‘And 
as a wealthy man’s son, of what great value are 
your’ Said 1: “I am the only child of my father 
and mother.”’ Said he: ‘To me you are not an 
only child!” Said I: “I am fretted over. If they 
find that I am gone, they will not get over it, they 
will die, especially my mother.’”’ 116 looked at me, 
the old man did, very kindly, and he said to me, softly 
and sweetly as before: ‘“‘If you do not want to die, 
then come with me. Say good-bye to your father 


and mother, and come.” ‘But, how can I come 
when I am an only child, the only one left alive out 
of seven?” 


Then he said to me more sternly: ‘‘For the last 
time, little boy. Choose one of the two. Either 
you say good-bye to your father and mother, and 


36 


Elijah the Prophet 


come with me, or you remain here, but fast asleep 
for ever and 6061." 

Having said these words, he stepped back from 
me a little, and was turning to the door. What 
was to be done? To go with the old man, God- 
knows-where, and get lost, would mean the death of 
my father and mother. Iam an only child, the only 
one left alive out of seven. ‘To remain here, and 
fall asleep for ever and ever—that would mean that 
I myself must die. . . . 

I stretched out my hand to him, and with tears in 
my eyes I said: “Elijah the Prophet, dear, kind, 
loving, darling Elijah, give me one minute to think.” 
He turned towards me his handsome, yellow, 
wrinkled old face with its grizzled beard reaching to 
his knees, and looked at me with his beautiful, kind, 
loving, faithful eyes, and he said to me with a smile: 
‘‘T will give you one minute to decide, my child—but, 
no more than one minute.” 


1 ask you. ‘“‘What should I have decided to do 
in that one minute, so as to save myself from going 
with the old man, and also to save myself from 
falling asleep for ever? Well, who can guess?” 


37 


Getzel 


“Sit down, and I will tell you a story about nuts.” 

“About nuts? About nuts?’ 

‘About nuts.” 

‘Now? War-time?”’ 

‘‘Just because it’s war-time. Because your heart 
is heavy, I want to distract your thoughts from the 
war. In any case, when you crack a nut, you find a 
kernel.” 


His name was Getzel, but they called him 
Goyetzel. Whoever had God in his heart made fun 
of Getzel, ridiculed him. He was considered a bit 
of a fool. Amongst us school-boys he was looked 
upon as a young man. He was a clumsily built fel- 
low, had extremely coarse hands, and thick lips. 
He had a voice that seemed to come from an empty 
barrel. He wore wide trousers and big top-boots, 
like a bear. His head was as big as a kneading 
trough. This head of his,“Reb” Yankel used to 
_ say, was stuffed with hay or feathers. The “Rebbe” 
frequently reminded Getzel of his great size and 
awkwardness. ‘‘Goyetzel,” ‘Coarse being,” ‘Bul- 
lock’s skin,’ and other such nicknames were be- 
stowed on him by the teacher. And he never 
seemed to care a rap about them. 116 hid in a 


38 


Getzel 


corner, puffed out his cheeks, and bleated like a 
calf. You must know that Getzel was fond of eat- 
ing. Food was dearer to him than anything else. 
He was a mere stomach. 1 86 master called him a 
glutton, but Getzel didn’t care about that either. 
The minute he saw food, he thrust it into his mouth, 
and chewed and chewed vigorously. He had sent 
to him, to the ‘“‘Cheder,’ the best of everything. 
This great clumsy fool was, along with everything 
else, his wealthy mother’s darling—her only child. 
And she took the greatest care of him. Day and 
night, she stuffed him like a goose, and was always 
wailing that her child ate nothing. 

''116 ought to have the evil eye averted from him,” 
our teacher used to say, behind Getzel’s back, of 
course. 

‘*To the devil with his mother,” the teacher’s wife 
used to add, in such a voice, and making such a 
grimace over her words that it was impossible to 
keep from laughing. ‘In Polosya they keep such 
children in swaddling clothes. May 06 sufier 
instead of my old bones!” 

‘May I live longer than his head,” the teacher 
put in, after her, and pulled Getzel’s cap down over 
his ears. 

The whole “Cheder” laughed. Getzel sat silent. 
He was sulky, but kept silent. It was hard to get 
him into a temper. But, when he did get into a 
temper, he was terrible. Even an angry bear could 
not be fiercer than he. 116 used to dance with 
passion, and bite his own big hands with his strong 
white teeth. If he gave one a blow, one felt it—one 


39 


Jewish Children 


enjoyed it. This the boys knew very well. They 
had tasted his blows, and they were terribly afraid 
of him. ‘They did not want to have anything to do 
with him. You know that Jewish children have a 
lot of respect for beatings. And in order to 
protect themselves against Getzel, all the ten boys 
had to keep united—ten against one. And that was 
how it came about that there were two parties at 
“Reb” Yankel’s ““Cheder.”’ On the one side, all the 
pupils; on the other, Getzel. The boys kept their 
wits about them; Getzel his fists. The boys worked 
at their lessons; Getzel ate continually. 


It came to pass that on a holiday the boys got 
together to play nuts. Playing nuts is a game like 
any other, neither better than tops, nor worse than 
cards. The game is played in various ways. There 
are “holes” and “bank” and ‘“‘caps.”” But every 
game finishes up in the same way. One boy loses, 
another wins. And, as always, he who wins is a 
clever fellow, a smart fellow, a good fellow. And 
he who loses is a good-for-nothing, a fool and a 
ne’er-do-well; just as it happens in the big cities, at 
the clubs, where people sit playing cards night and 
day. 

The ten boys got together in the “Cheder’ to vlay 
nuts. ‘They turned over a bench, placed a row of 
nuts on the floor, and began rolling other nuts down- 
wards. Whoever knocked the most nuts out of the 
row won the whole lot. Suddenly the door opened, 
and Getzel came in, his pockets loaded with nuts, 
as usual. 


40 


Getzel 


“Welcome art thou—a Jew!” cried one of the 
boys. 

“Tf you speak of the Messiah,” put in a second. 

“Vive Haman!”’ cried a third. 

“And Rashi says, ‘The devil brought him 
here.’ " cried a fourth. 

‘What are you playing? Bank? Then I'll play 
too,”’ said Getzel, to which he got an immediate 
reply: 

“No, with a little cap.” 

‘Why not?” 

‘Just for that.” 

‘Then 1 won’t let you play.” 

He didn’t hesitate a moment, but scattered the 
nuts about the floor with his bear’s paws. ‘The boys 
got angry. The cheek of the rascal! 

‘Boys, why don’t you do something?” asked one. 

“What shall we do?” asked a second. 

“Lets break his bones for ‘him,” suggested a 
third. 

“Allright. Try 16 ,םס‎ cried Getzel. He turned 
up his sleeves, ready for work. 

And there took place a battle, a fight between the 
two parties. On the one side was the whole 
“Cheder,’ on the other Getzel. 

Ten is not one. It was true they felt what 
Getzel’s fists tasted like. Bruises and marks around 
the eyes were the portion of the ten. But for that, 
again, they gave him a good taste of the world with 
their sharp nails and their teeth, and every 
other thing they could. From the front and from 
the back and from all sides, he got blows and kicks 


41 


Jewish Children 


and pulls and thumps and bites and scratches. Well, 
ten is not one. ‘They overcame him. Getzel had 
to get himself off, disappear. And now begins the 
real story of the nuts. 


After he left the “Cheder,” bruised and scratched 
and torn and bleeding, Getzel stood thinking: for a 
while. He clapped his hands on his pockets, and 
there was heard the rattling of nuts. 

“You don’t want to play nuts with me, then may 
the Angel of Death play with you. 1 want you for 
ten thousand sacrifices. I can manage. We two 
will play by ourselves.” 

That was what Getzel said to himself. ‘The 
next minute he was off like the wind. He stopped 
in the middle of the road to say aloud, as if there 
was some one with him: 

‘‘Where to? Where, for instance, shall we go, 
Getzel?”” And at once he answered himself: 
“There, far outside the town, on the other side of 
the mill. There we shall be alone, the two of us. 
No one will disturb us. Let any one attempt to 
disturb us, and we will break bones, and make an 
end.” 

Talking with himself, Getzel felt that he was not 
alone. He was not one but two; and he felt as 
strong as two. Let the boys dare to come near 
him, and he would break them to atoms. He would 
reduce them to a dust-heap. 116 enjoyed listening 
to his own words, and did not stop talking to him- 
self, as if he really had some one beside him. 

‘Listen to me. How far are we going to go?” 


42 


Getzel 


he asked himself. And he answered himself almost 
in a strange voice: 

‘Well, it all depends on you.” 

‘Perhaps we ought to sit down here and play 
nuts Well? What do you say, Getzel?” 

‘Tt’s all the same to me.” 

Getzel sat down on the ground, far beyond the 
town, behind the mill, took out the nuts, counted 
them, divided them in two equal parts, put one 
lot in his right-hand pocket, and the other in 
his left. He took off his cap, and threw into it a 
few nuts from his right-hand pocket. 116 said to 
himself : 

‘They imagine 1 can’t get on without them. 
Listen, Getzel, what game are we playing?” 

“T don’t know. Whatever game you like.” 

‘Then let us play ‘odd or even.’ ” 

“Tm quite willing.” 

He shook his cap. 

‘“‘Now, guess. Oddor even? Well, speak out,” 
he said to himself. 116 dug his elbow into his own 
ribs, and said to himself: 

obsven, ) 

“Even did you say? Who'll thrash you? You 
have lost. Hand over three nuts.”’ 

He took three nuts from his left-hand pocket, and 
put them into the right. Again he shook the cap, 
and again he asked: 

“Odd or even this time?” 

“Odd.” 

“Did you say odd? May you suffer for ever! 
Hand them over here. You have lost four nuts.” 


43 


Jewish Children 


He changed four nuts from his left-hand pocket to 
the right, shook the cap and said again: 

‘Well, maybe you'll guess right now. Odd or 
even?” 

!| א 

“Fen did you say? May your bones rot! 
You rascal, hand out here five nuts.” 

“Tsn’t it enough that I lose. Why do you curse 
mem 

‘‘Whose fault is it that ‘you are a fool and that you 
guess as a blind man guesses a hole? Well, say 
again—odd oreven? ‘This time you must be right.” 

Even.” 

“Even? May you live long! Hand out seven 
nuts, you fool, and guess again. Odd or even?” 

Even 

‘‘Again even. May you be my father! )2004- 
for-nothing, hand over five more nuts, and guess 
again. Maybe you will guess right for once. Odd 
or even? Why are you silent—eh?” 

“T have no more nuts.” 

“It’s a lie, you have!” 

‘‘As 1 am a Jew, I haven't.” 

“Just look in your pocket, like this.” 

‘There isn’t even a sign of one.” 

‘None? Lost all the nuts? Well, what good 
has it done you? Aren’t you a fool?” 

‘Enough! You have won all my nuts, and now 
you torment me.” 

“It’s good, it’s all right. You wanted to win all 
my nuts, and I have won yours.” 

Goyetzel was well satisfied that Getzel had lost, 


44 


+ 


¢e®e® 


Getzel 


whilst he, Goyetzel had won. He felt it was doing 
him good to win. He felt equal to winning all the 
nuts in the whole world. ‘Where are they now, the 
‘Cheder’ boys? 1 would have got my own back 
from them. I would not have left them the smallest 
nut, not even for a cure. They would have died 
here on the ground in front of me.” 

Getzel grew angry, fierce. He closed his fists, 
clenched his teeth, and spoke to himself, just as if 
there was some one beside him. 

‘Well, try now. Now that I am not by myself. 
Now that there are two of us. Well, Getzel, why 
are you sitting there like a bridegroom? = 
play nuts another little while.” 


‘Nuts? Where have I nuts? Didn’t 1 tell you | 


1 haven’t a single one?” 

“Ah, I forgot that you have no more nuts. Do 
you know what I would advise you, Getzel?” 

“For instance ?” 

‘Have you any money ? 

“T have. Well, what of that?” 

“Buy nuts from me.” 

‘What do you mean by saying I should buy nuts 
off you?” 

“Fool! Don’t you know what buying means? 
Give me money, and 10 give you nuts. Eh?” 

“Well, I agree to that.” 

He took from his purse a silver coin, bargained 
about the price, counted a score of nuts from the 
right-hand pocket to the left, and the play began all 
over again. 

An experienced card-player, the story goes, half 


45 


Jewish Children 


an hour before his death called his son—also a 
gambler—to his bedside, and said to him: 

‘My child, 1 am going from this world. We 
shall never meet again. I know you play cards. 
You have my nature. You may play as much as 
you like, only take care not to play yourself out.” 

These words are almost a law. ‘There is nothing 
worse in the world than playing yourself out. 
Experienced people say it deprives a man even of 
his last shirt. It drives a man to desperate acts. 
And one cannot hope to rise at the Resurrection after 
that. So people say. And so it happened with our 
young man. 116 worked so long, shaking his cap, 
‘‘odd or even,” taking from one pocket and putting 
into the other, until his left-hand pocket hadn’t a 
single nut in it. 

‘Well, why don’t you play?” 

“T have nothing to play with.” 

“Again you have no nuts, good- for-nothing!? 

“You say I am a good-for-nothing. And I say 
you are a cheat.”’ 

“Tf you call me a cheat again, I will give you a 
clout in the jaw.” 

‘Let the Lord put it into your head.” 

Getzel sat quiet for a few minutes, scraping the 
ground with his fingers, digging a hole, and 
muttering a song under his breath. Then he said: 

‘Dirty thing, let us play nuts.” 

“Where have 1 nuts?” 

‘‘Haven’t you money? 1 will sell you another 
tens; 

‘Money? Where have I money?” 


46 


Getzel 


‘‘No money and no nuts? Oh, 1 can’t stand it. 
Ha! ha! ha!” | 

The laugh echoed over the whole field, and 16- 
echoed in the distant wood. Getzel was convulsed 
with laughter. 

‘What are you laughing at, you Goyetzel you?’ 
he asked himself. And he answered himself in a 
different voice: 

'1 am laughing at you, good-for-nothing. 1 
it enough that you lost all my nuts on me? Why 
did you want to go and lose my money as well? 
Such a lot of money. You fool of fools! Oh, I 
can t get over it): Fial ha! hal” 

‘You yourself brought me to it. You wicked 
one of wicked ones! You scamp! You rascal!’ 

‘Fool of the night! 14 I were to tell you to cut 
off your nose, must you do it? You idiot! You 
animal with the horse’s face, you! Ha! ha! ha!” 

“Be quiet, at any rate, you Goyetzel, you. And 
let me not see your forbidding countenance.” 

And he turned away from himself, sat sulky for 
a few minutes, scraping the earth with his fingers. 
He covered the hole he had made, as he sang a little 
song under his breath. 

“Do you know what I will tell you, Getzel?” he 
said to himself 2 few minutes later. ‘“‘Let us 
forgive one another. Letusbe friends. The Lord 
helped me. It was my luck to win so many nuts— 
may no evil eye harm them! Why should we not 
enjoy ourselves? Let’s crack a few nuts. I should 
think they are not bad! Well, what do you say, 
Getzel?” 


47 


Jewish Children 


“Yes, I also think they ought not to be bad,” he 
answered himself. He thrust a nut into his mouth, 
a second, a third. [Each time, he banged his teeth 
with his fists. The nut was cracked. 116 took out 
a fat kernel, cleaned it round, threw it back in his 
mouth, and chewed it pleasurably with his strong 
white teeth. He crunched them as a horse crunches 
oats. He said to himself: 

“Would you also like the kernel of a nut, Getzel? 
Speak out. Do not be ashamed.” 

“Why not?” 

That was how he answered himself. He 
stretched out his left hand, but only smacked it with 
his right. 

“Will you have a plague?” 

‘‘Let it be a plague.” 

“Then have two.” 

And he did not cease from cracking the nuts, and 
crunching them like a horse. It was not enough 
that he sat eating and gave none to the other, but 
he said to him: 

‘Listen, Getzel, to what I will ask you. How, 
for example, do you feel while I am eating and you 
are only looking on?” 

‘‘How 40 I feel? May you have such a year!” 

‘Ah, I see you’ve got a temper. Here is a kernel 
for you.” — 

And Getzel’s right hand gave the left a kernel. 
The right turned upside down. The left hand 
smacked the right. The left hand smacked the 
right cheek. Then the right hand smacked the left 
cheek twice. The left hand caught hold of the 
48 


Getzel 


right lapel of his coat, and the right hand at once 
tore off the left lapel, from top to bottom. The 
left hand pulled the right earlock. The right hand 
gave the left ear a terrible bang. 

“Let go of my earlock, Getzel. Take my advice, 
and let go of my earlock!”’ 

“A plague!” 

‘Then you’ll have no earlock, Getzel.”’ 

‘Then you, Goyetzel, will have no ear.” 

“Oh!” 

Bon wo Ohi 


EPILOGUE 


For several minutes our Getzel rolled on the 
ground. Now he lay right side up, and now he lay 
left side up. 116 held his pocketful of nuts with 
both hands. . . . One minute Goyetzel was vic- 
torious. ‘The next it was Getzel, until he got up 
from the ground covered with dirt, like a pig. He 
was torn to pieces, had a bleeding ear, and a torn 
earlock. 116 took 211 the nuts from his pocket, and 
threw them into the mud of the river, far away, 
behind the mill. He muttered angrily: 

‘“That’s right. It’s a good 4664." 

‘Neither you—nor me.” 


49 


A Lost “L’Ag Beomer ”’ 


Our teacher, ‘‘Reb’’ Nissel the small one—so 
called on account of his size—allowed himself to 
be led by the nose by his assistants. Whatever they 
wanted they got. When the first assistant said the 
children were to be sent home early that day, he sent 
them home early. The second assistant said that 
the boys would turn the world upside down, and 
ought to be kept at school, and he kept them at 
school. He could never decide anything for him- 
self. That was why his assistants controlled the 
school, and not he. At other schools the assistants 
teach the children to wash their hands and say the 
blessing. At our school, the assistants would not 
do this for us, nor fetch us our meals, nor take us to 
school on their shoulders. No, they liked to go for 
our meals. ‘They ate them themselves on the road. 
We did not dare to tell the master of this. The 
assistants kept us in fear and trembling. If a boy 
whispered a word of their doings to the teacher, he 
would be flogged, his skin would be cut. Once, a 
daring boy told the master something; and the 
assistant beat him so terribly that he was laid up in 
bed for months. He warned the boys never to tell 
the master anything, no matter what the assistants 
did. 

50 


A Lost “L’Ag Beomer”’ 


This period of our schooldays might be called the 
Tyranny of the Assistants. 


And it came to pass that we were under the yoke 
of the assistants. One year, we had a cold “L’ag 
Beomer.”’ It was a cold, wet May, such as we 
sometimes had in our town, Mazapevka. ‘The sun 
barely showed itself. A sharp wind blew, brought 
us clouds, tore open our coats, and threw us off our 
feet. It was not pleasant out of doors. 

Just then the assistants took it into their heads. 
to take us for a walk outside the town, so that we 
might play at wars, with swords and pop-guns and 
bows and arrows. 

It is an old custom amongst Jewish children, to 
become war-like on the “L’ag Beomer.” They arm 
themselves from head to foot with wooden swords, 
pop-guns and bows and arrows. ‘They take food 
with them, and go off to wage war. Jewish children 
who are the whole year round closed up in small 
“Chedorim,” oppressed by fears of the master, and 
trembling under the whips of the assistants, when 
“Tag Beomer” comes round, and they may go out 
into the open, armed from head to foot, imagine 
that they are giants who can overcome the strongest 
foe and reduce the world to ruins. All at once 
they grow brave. They step forward eagerly, 
singing songs that are a curious mixture of Yiddish 
and Russian. 


“One, two, three, four! 


Jewish children 
51 


Jewish Children 


Learn the ‘Torah,’ 

Believe in miracles, 

Are not afraid. 

Hear, O Israel! Nothing matters. 
We are not afraid of any one, 
Excepting God.” 


And we carried out the old custom. We took 
down our swords of last year from the attic, and we 
made bows from the hoops of old wine barrels. 
Pop-guns the assistants provided us with, for 
money, of course—fine guns with which one could 
shoot flies if they only stood still long enough. In 
a word, we had all the Jewish weapons to frighten 
tiny infants to death. And we provided ourselves 
with food in good earnest, each boy as much as 
the Lord had blessed him with, and his mother 
would give him, out of her generosity. We arrived 
at “Cheder’ armed from head to foot, and our 
pockets bulging out with good things—rolls, cakes, 
boiled eggs, goose-fat, cherry-wine, fruit, fowls, 
livers, tea and sugar, and preserves and jam, and 
also many “groschens’” in money. Each boy tried 
to show off by bringing the best and the largest 
quantity. And we wished to please the assistants. 
They praised us, and said we were very good boys. 
They took our food and put it into their bags. 
They placed us in rows, like soldiers, and com- 
manded us. 

‘Jewish children, take hands, and march across 
the bridge, straight for Mezritzer fields. There 
you will meet the sea-cats, and do battle with them.” 


22 


A Lost “L’Ag Beomer’” 


‘Hurrah for the sea-cats!’’ we shouted in one 
voice. We took hands and went forward, like 
giants, strong and courageous. 


We called the Free School boys sea-cats because 
they were short little children in the ABC class. 
They appeared to us “Chumash’ boys like flies, ants. 
We imagined that with one blow—phew! we 
would make an end of them. We were certain 
that when they saw us, how we were armed from 
head to foot with swords and bows and arrows and 
pop-guns, they would surely fly away. It was no 
trifle to encounter such giants. You play with 
“Chumash” boys, warriors with long legs! 

We had never fought the sea-cats before. But 
we had every reason to believe, we were convinced, 
we would conquer these squirrels with a glance, 
destroy them, make an end of them. Along with 
giving them a good licking, we would take spoil 
from them, that is to say, their food, and let them 
go hungry. 

We were so full of our own courage, and so 
enthusiastic about the brave deeds we were going 
to do that we pushed each other forward, clapped 
each other on the shoulder. ‘Then, too, the assist- 
ants urged us forward. 

“Why do you crawl like insects?” they asked 
us. They themselves stopped frequently, opened 
the bags, and tasted our food and cherry-wine, 
which they praised highly. 

“Fixcellent cherry-wine,’ they said, passing 


53 


Jewish Children 


round the bottles, and letting the liquid gurgle down 
their throats. ‘Splendid liquor. The best I ever 
tasted.” 

That was what the assistants said. ‘hey 
actually licked their fingers. They remained in © 
the distance, but indicated with their hands that 
we must go forward, forward. 

We went on and on, over the wide Mezritzer 
field, though the wind blew stronger and stronger. 
The sky grew black with clouds, and a cold, thick 
rain beat into our faces. Our hands were blue with 
the cold. Our boots squelched in the mud. We 
had long given up singing songs. We were tired 
and hungry, very hungry. We decided to sit down 
and rest, and have something to eat. 

‘“‘Where are the assistants? Where is the food 
—where is it?” 

The boys began to murmur against the assistants. 

‘Tt is a dirty trick to take all our food from us, 
and our cherry-wine and our few ‘groschens,’ and to 
leave us here in the desert, cold and hungry. May 
the devil take them!” 

‘‘May a bad end come to the assistants!” 

‘May the cholera strike down all the assistants 
in the world!” 

‘‘May they be the sacrifices for our tiniest nails!” 

‘Hush. Let there be silence. Here come our 
foes, our enemies.”’ 

“Little squirrels with big sticks.” 

“The sea-cats—the sea-cats!” 

“Hurrah for the sea-cats!” 


54 


A Lost “L’Ag Beomer”’ 


The moment we saw them, we rushed towards 
them, like fierce starving wolves. We were ready 
to tear them to pieces. But there happened to us 
a misfortune, a great misfortune which no one could 
possibly have foreseen. 

If it is not destined, neither wisdom nor strength 
nor smartness are of any avail. Listen to what 
can happen. 


The sea-cats, though they were small, short little 
squirrels, were evidently no fools. Before going 
to do battle on the broad Mezritzer field, they had 
prepared themselves well at home, gone through 
their drill. Afterwards, they fed up. They also 
took with them warm clothing and rubber goloshes. 
They were armed from head to foot no worse than 
we were, with swords and pop-guns and bows and 
arrows. They would not wait until we had taken 
the offensive. ‘They attacked us first, and began 
to break our bones. And how, do you think? 
From all sides at once, and so suddenly that we 
had no time to look about us. Before we realized 
it, they were upon us. ‘They were not alone, but 
had their assistants to urge them on and encourage 
them. 

“Pay out the ‘Chumash’ boys. Beat them, the 
boys with the long legs.” 

Naturally we were not silent either. We stood 
up against the squirrels, like giants, beat them with 
our swords, aimed our arrows at them, and shot 
at them with our pop-guns. But, alas! our swords 


55 


Jewish Children 


were dull as wood; and before we could set our 
bows, they had thrashed us. I say nothing of the 
guns. What can you do with a pop-gun if the 
foe will not wait until you have taken aim at him? 
They rushed forward and knocked the guns out 
of our hands. What could we do? 

We had to throw away our weapons, our swords 
and pop-guns and bows a arrows, and fight as 
the Lord has ordained. at is to say, we fought 
with our fists. But we were hungry and tired and 
cold, and fought without a plan, because our 
assistants had remained behind. They let us 
fight whilst they ate our food and drank our cherry- 
wine—the devil take them! And they, the little 
squirrels, well-fed and well-clad, had crept upon 
us from three sides at once, each moment growing 
stronger and stronger. They rained down on us 
blows and thumps and digs. The same blows that 
we had reckoned on giving them they gave us. And 
their assistants went in front of them, and never 
ceased from urging them on. 

‘Pay back the ‘Chumash’ boys. Beat them, beat 
them, the boys with the long legs.” 

Who was the first to turn his back on the enemy? 
It would be hard to say. I only know we ran 
quickly, helter-skelter, back home, back to Maz- 
apevka. And they, the little squirrels—may they 
burn!—ran after us, shouting and yelling and 
laughing at us, right on top of us. 

“Hurrah! ‘Chumash’ boys! Hurrah! Big 
boys!” 

56 


A Lost “L’Ag Beomer” 


We arrived home exhausted, ragged, bruised, 
beaten. And we giants imagined that our parents 
would pity us, give us cakes because of the blows 
we got. But it turned out we were mistaken. No 
one thought of us.~.We thanked God we were so 
fortunate as to = without beatings from our 
parents for our torn clothes and twisted boots. But 
next morning we got a good whipping from our 
teacher, Nissel the smallsone, for the bruises we 
had on our foreheads and the blue marks around 
our eyes. It is shameful to tell it—-we were each 
whipped in the true style. This was a mere 
addition, as if we had not had enough. 

We were not sorry for anything but that the 
assistants gave us another share. When a father 
or a mother beats one, it is out of kindness. When 
a teacher beats one it is because he 18 '8/ teacher. 
And what is his rod for, anyway? But the 
assistants! Our curses upon them! As if it were 
not enough that they had eaten all our food, and 
drunk our cherry-wine—may they suffer for it, 
Father of the Universe !—as if it were not enough 
that they had left us to fight alone, in the middle 
of the field, but when they were whipping us they 
held our feet, so that we might not kick either. 


And that was how our holiday ended up. It was 
a dark, dreary, lost “L’ag Beomer.” 


57 


Murderers 


“Ts he still snoring?” 

‘And how snoring!” 

‘May he perish!” 

“Wake him up. Wake him up.” 

‘‘Leib-Dreib-Obderick !”’ 

“Get up, my little bird.” 

‘Open your little eyes.” 

I barely managed to open my eyes, raise my head, 
and look about me. I saw a whole crowd of 
rascals, my school-fellows. The window was open, 
and along with their sparkling eyes I saw the first 
rays of the bright, warm early morning sun. I 
looked about me, on all sides. 

‘Just see how he looks.” 

‘Like a sinner.” 

“Did you not recognize us?” 

‘Have you forgotten that it is ‘L’ag Beomer 
today?” 

The words darted through all my limbs like a 
flash of lightning. I was carried out of bed by 
them. In the twinkling of an eye, I was dressed. 
I went in search of my mother, who was busy with 
the breakfast and the younger children. 

“Mother, today is ‘L’ag Beomer.’ ” 

58 


Murderers 

“A good ‘Yom-tov’ to you. What do you 
want?” 

''| want something for the party.” 

‘What am I to give you? My troubles? ve 
my aches?”’ 

So said my mother to me. קע‎ ‘he 
was ready to give me something towards the party. 
We bargained about it. I wanted a lot. She 
would only give a little. I wanted two eggs. Said 
she: “A suffering in the bones!” I began to grow 
angry. She gave me two smacks. I began to cry. 
She gave me an apple to quieten me. I wanted an 
orange. Said she: “Greedy boy, what will you 
want 646? ' And my friends on the other side of 
the window were kicking up a row. 

‘Will you ever come out, or not?” 

‘‘Leib-Dreib-Obderick |” 

“The day is flying!” 

“Quicker! Quicker!” 

“Like the wind.” 

After much arguing, I got round my mother. I 
snatched up my breakfast and my share of the 
party, and flew out of the house, fresh, lively, joy- 
ful, to my waiting comrades. All together we flew 
down the hill to the “Cheder.” 


The “Cheder”’ was full of noise and tumult and 
shouting that reached to the sky. A score of 
throats shouted at the one time. The table was cov- 
ered with delicacies. We had never had such a 
party as we were going to have that “L’ag Beomer.” 
We had wine and brandy, for which we had to 


oy 


Jewish Children 


thank Berrel Yossel, the wine-merchant’s son. He 
had brought a bottle of brandy and two bottles of 
wine made by Yossel himself. His father had 
given him the brandy, but the wine he had taken 
himself. 

‘‘What do you mean by saying he took it him- 
self?” 

‘Don’t you understand, peasant’s head? He 
took it from the shelf when no one was looking.” 

‘Gracious me! ‘That means he stole?” 

“Fool of the night! Well, what then?” 

‘‘What do you mean? Then he is a thief ?” 

‘For the sake of the party, fool.” 

‘Is it a good deed to steal for that?” 

“Certainly. What do you say to the wise one 
of the ‘Four questions’ ?” 

‘Where is it written?” 

''116 wants us to tell him where it is written?” 

‘Tell him it is written in the Book of Jests.”’ 

“In the chapter called ‘And he took.’ ” 

“Beginning with the words ‘Bim-bom.’ ” 

“Ela tha lehal? 

‘Hush, children, Mazeppa comes.” 

All at once there was silence. We were sitting 
around the table quiet as lambs, like angels, golden 
children who could not count two, and whose souls 
were innocent. 


Mazeppa was the teacher’s name. ‘That is to 
say, his real name was Baruch-Moshe. He had 
come to our town from Mazapevka not long before, 
and the people called him the Mazapevkar. We 
60 


Murderers 


boys shortened his name to Mazeppa. And when 
pupils crown their teacher with such a lovely name, 
he must be worthy of it. Let me introduce him. 
He is small, thin, dried-up, hideously ugly. He 
hasn’t even the signs of a moustache or beard or 
eyebrows. Not because he shaved. God forbid, 
but simply because they would not grow. But for 
that again he had a pair of lips and a nose. Oh, 
what a nose! It was curved like a ram’s horn 
And he had a voice like a bull. 116 growled like a 
lion. Where did such a creature get such a terrible 
roar? And where did he get so much strength? 
When he took hold of you by the hand with his 
cold, bony fingers, you saw the next world. When 
he boxed your ears, you felt the smart for three 
days on end. 116 hated arguing. For the least 
thing, guilty or not guilty, he had one sentence: 


‘Lie down.” 
“Rebbe, Yossel-Yakov-Yossels thumped me.” 
‘Lie down.” 
“ ‘Rebbe,’ it’s a lie. 116 first kicked me in the 
side.” 
“Lie down.” 


“Rebbe, Chayim-Berrel Lippes put out his 
tongue at me.” 

“Lie down.” 

“ ‘Rebbe,’ it’s a lie of 1169. 116 made a noise at 
Wes: 

‘Lie down.” 

And you had to lie down. Nothing would avail 
you. Even Elya the red one, who is already “Bar- 
mitzvah,” and is engaged to be married, and wears 


61 


Jewish Children 


a silver watch—do you think he is never flogged? 
Oh yes! And how? Elya says he will be avenged 
for the floggings he gets. Some day or other he 
will pay back the “Rebbe” in such a way that his 
children’s children will remember it. That’s what 
Elya says after each flogging. And we echo his 
words. 


“Amen! May 16 be so! From your mouth into 
God’s ears!” 


We said our prayers with the teacher, as usual. 
(He never let us pray by ourselves because he 
thought we might skip more than half the prayers.) 
Mazeppa said to us in his lion’s roar: 

‘Now, children, wash your hands and sit down 
to the party. After grace 1 will let you go for a 
walk.” 

We used to hold our “L’ag Beomer’’ party out- 
side the town, in the open air, on the bare earth, un- 
der God’s sky. We used to throw crumbs of bread 
to the birds. Let them also know that it is “L’ag 
Beomer” in the world. But one does not argue with 
Mazeppa. When he told one to sit down, one sat 
down, lest he might tell one to lie down. 

‘Eat in peace,” he said to us, after we had 
pronounced the blessing. 

‘Come and eat with us,’ we replied out of 
politeness. 

‘Eat in health,” he said. ‘I do not wish to eat 
yet. But, if you like, I will make a blessing over 
the wine. What have you in that bottle? 
Brandy?” he asked, and stretched out his long, 
62 | 


Murderers 


dried-up hand with its bony fingers to the bottle of 
brandy. He poured out a glassful, tasted it, and 
made such a grimace that we must have been 
stronger than iron to control ourselves from 
exploding with laughter. 

‘‘Whose is this terrible thing?” he asked, taking 
another drop. “It’s not a bad brandy.” He filled 
a third glass and drank our health. 

“Long life to you, children. May God grant 
that we be alive next year, and—and... 
Haven’t you anything to bite? Well, in honour 
of ‘L’ag Beomer’ 1 will wash my hands and eat with 
you.” 

What is wrong with our teacher? MHe’s not the 
same Mazeppa. He is in good humour, and 
talkative. His cheeks are shining; his nose is red; 
and his eyes are sparkling. He eats and laughs and 
points to the bottle of wine. 

‘What sort of wine have you there? Passover 
wine?’ (He tasted it and pursed up his lips.) 
“P.s-ss! The best wine in the world.” (He drank 
more.) 149 2 long time since 1 tasted such 106. 
(To Yossel the wine-merchant’s son, with a laugh.) 
“The devil take your father’s cellar. I saw there 
barrels upon barrels. And of the finest raisins. 
Ha! ha! To your health, children. May the 
Lord help you to be honest, pious Jews, and may you 
—may you open the second bottle. Take glasses 
and drink to long life. May God grant that— 
that——”’ (He licked his lips. His eyes were 
closing.) ‘‘All good to the children of Israel.” 


63 


Jewish Children 


Having eaten and said grace, Mazeppa turned to 
us, his tongue failing him as he spoke: 

we have carried out the duty of eating to-‏ מסם ד"י 
gether on ‘L’ag Beomer.’ Well, and what next,‏ 
ene‏ 

‘Now we will go for the walk.” 

“For the walk, eh? Excellent. Where do we 

o?” 

‘To the black forest.” 

'114?7 To the black forest? Excellent. I 0 
with you. It is good to walk in a forest, very 
healthy, because a forest. . . Well, I will explain 
to you what a forest is.” 

We went off with our teacher, beyond the town. 
We were not altogether comfortable having him 
with us. But, shah! The teacher walked in the 
middle, waving his hands and explaining to us 
what a forest was. 

‘‘The nature of the forest, you must know, is as 
the Lord has created it. It is full of trees. On 
the trees are branches; and the branches are 
covered with leaves that give out a pleasant, 
pungent odour.”’ 

As he spoke, he sniffed the air that was not yet 
either pleasant or pungent. 

‘Well, why are you silent?” he asked. ‘Say 
something nice. Sing a song. Well, I was also a 
boy once, and mischievous like you. I also had a 
teacher.» Halihal”’ 

That Mazeppa had once been a mischievous 
boy and had had a teacher we could not believe. 
It was curious. Mazeppa playful? We exchanged 


64 


Murderers 


glances, and giggled softly. We tried to imagine 
Mazeppa playful and having a teacher. And did 
his teacher also ? We were afraid to think of 
such a thing. But Elya stopped to ask a question: 

““Rebbe, did your teacher also flog you as you 
flog us?” 

‘What? And what sort of floggings? Ha! 
ha!” 

We looked at the teacher and at each other. We 
understood one another. We laughed with him, 
until we were far from the town, in the broad fields, 
close to the forest. 


The fields were beautiful—a Garden of Eden. 
Green, fragrant grass, white boughs, yellow flowers, 
green flies, and above us the blue sky that stretched 
away endlessly. Facing us was the forest in holiday 
attire. In the trees the birds hopped, twittering, 
from branch to branch. ‘They were welcoming us 
on the dear day of “L’ag Beomer.”’ We sought 
shelter from the burning rays of the sun under a 
thick tree. We sat down on the ground in a row, 
the “Rebbe” in the middle. 

He was worn out. He threw himself on the 
ground, full-length, his face upwards. 1115 eyes 
were closing. He could hardly manage to speak. 


“You are dear, golden children. ... Jewish 
children. ... Saints. ... 1 love you, and you 
love me. . . . Oh yes, you I-love me?” 


“Like a pain in the eyes,” replied Elya. 
“Well, I know you |-love me,’’ went on the 
teacher. 
5 


Jewish Children 


‘‘May the Lord love you as we 40," said Elya. 
We were frightened, and whispered to Elya: 
“The Lord be with you!” 

‘Fools!’ he said with a laugh. ‘What are you 
afraid of ? Don’t you see he is drunk?” 

“What?” queried the teacher, one of whose eyes 
was already closed. “What are you saying? 
Saints? Of course. . . . The guardian of Israel. 
Hal! Hal! 1121! Rrrssss!” 

And our teacher fell fast asleep. The snores 
burst from his nose like the blasts from a ram’s horn, 
sounding far into the forest. We sat around him, 
and our hearts grew heavy. 

Is this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we 
fear? Is this Mazeppa? 


“Children,” said Elya to us, “‘why are we sitting 
like lumps of stone? Let us think of a punishment 
for Mazeppa.”’ 

A great fear fell upon us. 

“Fools, what are you afraid of?’ he went on. 
‘He is now like a dead body, a corpse.” 

We trembled still more. Elya went on: 

‘‘Now we may do with him what we like. He 
flogged us the whole winter, as if we were sheep. 
Let us take revenge of him this once, at least.” 

‘What would you do to him?” 

“Nothing. I will only frighten him.” 

‘How will you frighten him ?”’ 

“You shall soon 966. And he got up from the 


66 


Murderers 


ground. 116 went over to the teacher, took off his 
leather strap and said to us: 

‘See, we will fasten him to the tree with his own 
belt in such a way that he will not be able to free 
himself. Then one of us will go over to him and 
shout in his ear: “ ‘Rebbe,’ murderers!”’ 

“What will happen?” 

“Nothing. We will run away, and he will shout, 
‘Hear, O Israel!’ ” 

‘How long will he shout?” 

“Until he gets used to it.” 

Without another word, Elya tied the ‘“‘Rebbe” to 
the tree by the hands. We stood looking on, and a 
shudder passed over our bodies. 

Is this our teacher? Is this he whose glances we 
fear? Is this Mazeppa? 

“Why do you stand there like clay images?” said 
Elya to us. ‘The Lord has performed a miracle. 
Mazeppa has fallen into our hands. Let us dance 
for joy.” 

We took hands and danced around the sleeping 
Mazeppa like savages. We danced and leaped and 
sang like lunatics. 

We stopped. Elya bent over the sleeping teacher 
and shouted into his ear in a voice to waken the 
dead: 

“Help, ‘Rebbe’?! Murderers! Murderers! Mur- 
derers!”’ 


We flew off together, like arrows from bows. 
We were afraid to stop a moment. We were even 


67 


Jewish Children 


afraid to look around us. A great dread fell upon 
us, even upon Elya, although he never ceased from 
shouting at us: 

‘‘Donkeys, fools, animals! Why do you run?” 

“Why do you run?” 

‘When you run 1 run too.” 

We got into the town full of excitement, and still 
shouting: 

“Murderers! Murderers!” 

When the people saw us running, they ran after 
us. Seeing them running another crowd ran after 
them. 

“Why are you running ?” 

‘How are we to know? Others run, and we run 
too.” 

After some time, one of our boys stopped. And 
seeing him, we also stopped, but still shouted: 

‘Murderers! Murderers! Murderers!” 

‘Where? Where? Where?” 

‘There, in the black forest, murderers beset us. 
They bound our teacher to a tree, and God knows 
if he is still alive.” 


e e © 9 ט‎ © e 


If you envy us because we are free, because we do 
not go to “Cheder’ (the “Rebbe’’ is lying ill), it is 
for nothing—for nothing. No one knows whom 
the shoe pinches—no one. .No one knows who the 
real murderers are. _We rarely see one another. 
When we meet, the first words are: ‘‘How is the 
teacher?’ (Heisno more Mazeppa.) And when 


68 


Murderers 


we pray, we ask God to save the teacher. We 
weep in silence: ‘Oh, Father of the Universe! 
Father of the Universe!” And Elya? Don’t ask 
about him. May the devil take him—that same 
Elya! 


EPILOGUE 


When the “Rebbe” recovered (he was ill six 
weeks, in the height of fever, and babbled constantly 
of murderers) and we went back to “Cheder,”’ we 
hardly recognized him, so greatly had he changed. 
What had become of his lion’s roar? 116 had put 
away his strap, and there was no more “Lie down,”’ 
-andnomore Mazeppa. On his face there was to be 
seen a gentle melancholy. A feeling of regret stole 
into our hearts. And Mazeppa suddenly grew dear 
to us, dear to our souls.. Oh, if he had only scolded 
us! But it was as if nothing had happened. Sud- 
denly, he stopped us in the middle of the lesson, and 
asked us to tell him again the story of that “L’ag 
Beomer’” day, and of the murderers in the forest. 
We did not hesitate, but told him again and again 
the story we knew off by heart—how murderers had 
come upon us in the forest, how they fell upon him, 
tied him to the tree, and were going to kill him with a 
knife, and how we rushed excitedly into the town, 
and by our shouting and clamours saved him. 

The “Rebbe” listened to us with closed eyes. 
Then he sighed, and asked us suddenly: 

9 


Jewish Children 


‘Are you quite sure they were murderers: יי‎ 
‘What else were they?” 
‘Perhaps bandits?” 
And the teacher’s eyes sought the distance. And 
Wwe imagined that a curiously cunning smile was 
hovering around his thick lips. 


70 


Three Little Heads 


If my pen were an artist’s brush, or at the very 
least a photographic camera, I would create for you, 
my friend, a picture, for a present in honour of 
“Shevuous,” of a rare group of three pretty little 

\heads, of three poor naked, barefoot Jewish chil- 
dren. All three little heads are black, and have 
curly hair. The eyes are big and shiny and burning. 
They gaze out in wonder, and seem to be always ask- 
ing of the world the one question: Wherefore? 
You look at them, and marvel at them’ and feel 
guilty towards them, just as if you were really re- 
sponsible for them—for the existence of three little 
superfluous mortals in the world. 

The three pretty little heads are of two brothers 
and a little sister, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and 
Dvairke. They were brought up by their father in 
the true Russian style, petted and spoiled. Their 
father was Peisa the box-maker. And if he had not 
been afraid of his wife, Pessa, and if he had not been 
such a terribly poor man, he would have changed his 
Jewish name of Peisa into the Russian name of 
Petya. But, since he was a little afraid of his wife, 
Pessa, and since he was extremely poor—may it 
remain far from us!—he kept to his own name of 
Peisa the box-maker, until the good time comes, 
when everything will be different, as Bebel says, as 


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Jewish Children 


Karl Marx says, and as all the good and wise peo- 
ple say—when everything, everything will be differ- 
ent. But until the good and happy time comes, one 
must get up at the dawn of day, and work far into 
the night, cutting out pieces of cardboard and past- 
ing boxes and covers of books. Peisa the box-maker 
stands at his work all day long. 116 sings as 6 
works, old and new songs, Jewish and non-Jewish, 
mostly gay-sorrowful songs, in a gay-sorrowful voice. 

‘Will you ever give up singing those Gentile 
songs? Such a man! And how he loves the Gen- 
tiles. Since we have come to this big town, he has 
almost become a Gentile.” 

All three children, Abramtzig, Moshetzig, and 
Dvairke, were born and brought up in the same 
place—between the wall and the stove. They al- 
ways saw before them the same people and the same 
things: the gay father who cut cardboards, pasted 
boxes, and sang songs, and the careworn, hollow- 
cheeked mother who cooked and baked, and rushed 
about, and was never finished her work. ‘They were 
always at work, both of them—the mother at the 
stove, and the father at the cardboards. What 
were all the boxes for? Who wanted so many 
boxes? Is the whole world full of boxes? That 
was what the three little heads wanted to know. 
And they waited until their father had a great pile 
of boxes ready, when he would take them on his 
head and in his arms—thousands of them—to the 
market. He came back without the boxes, but with 
money for the mother, and with cakes and buns for 
the children. He was a good father—such a good 


72 


Three Little Heads 


father. He was gold. The mother was also gold, 
but she was cross. One got a smack from her some- 
times, a dig in the ribs, or a twist of an ear. She 
does not like to have the house untidy. She does 
not allow the children to play ‘‘fathers and moth- 
ers. She forbids Abramtzig to pick up the pieces 
of cardboard that have fallen to the floor, and 
Moshetzig to steal the paste from his father, and 
Dvairke to make bread of sand and water. The 
mother expects her children to sit still and keep 
quiet. _ It seems she does not know that young heads 
will think, and young souls are eager and restless. 
They want to go. Where? Out of doors, to the 
light. To the window—to the window. 


There was only one window, and all three heads 
were stuck against it. What did they see out of it? 
Awall. A high, big, grey, wet wall. It was always 
and ever wet, even in summer. Does the sun ever 
come here? Surely the sun comes here sometimes, 
that is to say, not the sun itself, but its reflection. 
Then there is a holiday. The three beautiful heads 
press against the little window. They look up- 
wards, very high, and see a narrow blue stripe, like 
a long blue ribbon. 

‘Do you see, children?” says Abramtzig. He 
knows. He goes to “Cheder.”’ 116 is learning 
“Kometz Aleph.’ The “Cheder” is not far away, 
in the next house, that is to say, in the next room. 
Ah, what stories Abramtzig tells about the 
“Cheder’! 116 tells how he saw with his own 
eyes—may he see all that is good!—a big building, 


73 


Jewish Children 


with windows from top to bottom. Abramtzig 
swears that he saw—may he see all that is good!— 
a chimney—a high chimney from which there 
came out smoke. Abramtzig tells that he saw 
with his own eyes—may he see all that is good!— 
a machine that sewed without hands. Abramtzig 
tells that he saw with his own eyes—may he see all 
that is good!—a car that went along without h@rses. 
And many more wonderful things Abramtzig tells 
from the “‘Cheder.’ And he swears, just as his 
mother swears—that he may see all that is good. 
And Moshetzig and Dvairke listen to him and 
sigh. “They envy Abramtzig because he knows 
everything—everything. 

For instance, Abramtzig knows that a tree 
grows. It is true he never saw a tree growing. 
There are no trees in the street—none. But he 
knows—he heard 16 at “Cheder’’—that fruit grows 
on a tree, for which reason one makes the blessing 
—‘‘Who hast created the fruit of the tree.” 
Abramtzig knows—what does he not know?—. 
that potatoes and cucumbers and onions and garlic : 
grow on the ground. And that’s why one says 
the blessing over them—‘‘Who hast created the 
fruit of the ground.” Abramtzig knows every- 
thing. Only he does not know how and by what 
means things grow, because, like the other children, 
he never saw them. There is no field in their street, 
no garden, no tree, no grass—nothing—nothing. 
There are big buildings in their street, grey walls 
and high chimneys that belch out smoke. Each 
building has a lot of windows, thousands and theu- 


74 | 


Three Little Heads 


sands of windows, and machines that go without 
hands. And in the streets there are cars that go 
without horses. And beyond these, nothing— 
nothing. 

Even a little bird is seldom seen here. Some- 
times an odd sparrow strays in--grey as the grey 
walls. He picks, picks at the stones. He spreads 
out his wings and flies away. Fowls? The chil- 
dren sometimes see the quarter of one with a long, 
pale leg. How many legs has a fowl? ‘Four, 
just like a horse,” explains Abramtzig. And 
surely he knows everything. Sometimes their 
mother brings home from the market a little head 
with glassy eyes that are covered with a white 
film. ‘It’s dead,” says Abramtzig, and all three 
children look at each other out of great black eyes; 
and they sigh. 

Born and brought up in the big city, in the huge 
building, in the congestion, loneliness and poverty, 
not one of the three children ever saw a living crea- 
ture, neither a fowl, nor a cow, nor any other ani- 
mal, excepting the cat. They have a cat of their 
* own—a big, live cat, as grey as the high damp grey 
wall. The cat is their only play-toy. They play 
with 16 for hours on end. ‘They put a shawl on her, 
call her ‘‘the wedding guest,” and laugh and laugh 
without an end. When their mother sees them, 
she presents them—one with a smack, a second with 
a dig in the ribs, and the third with a twist of the 
ear. The children go off to their hiding-place be- 
hind the stove. The eldest, Abramtzig, tells a 
story, and the other two, Moshetzig and Dvairke, 


75 


Jewish Children 


listen to him. 116 says their mother is right. 
They ought not to play with the cat, because a cat 
is a wicked animal. Abramtzig knows everything. 
There is nothing in the world that he does not 
know. 

2 0 

Abramtzig knows everything. He knows there 
is a land far away called America. In America 
they have a lot of relatives and friends. In that 
same America the Jews are well-off and happy— 
may no evil eye rest on them! Next year, if God 
wills it, they will go off to America—when they 
get tickets. Without tickets no one can go to 
America, because there is a sea. And on the sea 
there is a storm that shakes one to the very soul. 
Abramtzig knows everything. 

He even knows what goes on in the other 
world. For instance, he knows that in the other 
world there is 2 Garden of Eden, for Jews, of 
course. In the Garden of Eden there are trees 
with the finest fruits, and rivers of oil. Diamonds 
and rubies are to be found there in the streets. 
Stoop down and pick them up and fill your 
pockets. And there good Jews study the Holy 
Law day and night, and enjoy the holiness. 

That is what Abramtzig tells. And Moshet- 
210 9 and Dvairke’s eyes are burning. ‘They envy 
their brother because he knows everything. He 
knows everything, even to what goes on in the 
heavens. Abramtzig swears that twice a year, on 
the nights of “Hashono Rabo” and “Shevuous,” 
the sky opens. It is true he himself never saw the 


76 


Three Little Heads 


sky opening, because there is no sky near them. 
2 But his comrades saw it. They swore—may they 
- 'see all that is good!—And they would not swear 
to a lie. How can one swear to a lie? It’s-a 
pity they have no sky in their street, only a long, 
narrow blue stripe, like a long, narrow blue ribbon. 
What can one see in such a tiny scrap of sky, be- 
yond a few stars and the reflection of the moon? 
In order to prove to his little sister and brother 
that the sky opens, Abramtzig goes over to his 
mother, and pulls her by the skirt. 
ש‎ ‘Mother, is it true that in the very middle of 
/ ‘Shevuous’ night the sky opens?” 

‘“T will open your head for you.” 

When he got no satisfaction from his mother, 
Abramtzig waited for his father, who had gone 
off to the market with a treasure of boxes. 

“Children, guess what present father will 
bring us from the market,” said Abramtzig. And 
the children tried to guess what their father would 
bring them from the market. They counted on 
their fingers everything that was in the market— 
everything that an eye could see, and a heart de- 
sire—cakes and buns and sweets. But no one 
guessed aright. And I am afraid you will not 
guess aright either. Peisa the box-maker brought 
from the market this time neither cakes, nor buns 
nor sweets. He brought the children grass— 
curious, long, sweet-smelling grass. 

And all three children gathered around their 
father. 

“Father, what is it—that?”’ 


2 


Jewish Children 


“Tt is grass.”’ 

“What is grass?” 

“Tt is a bunch of greens for ‘Shevuous.’ Jews 
need grass for ‘Shevuous.’ ”’ 

‘Where do they get it, father?” 

“Where do they get it? H’m! They buy it. 
They buy it in the market,” said their father. 
And he strewed the green, sweet-smelling grass 
over the freshly-swept floor. And he was de- 
lighted; 16 was green and smelt sweet. He said 
to the mother gaily, as is his way: 

‘Pessa, good '1 010-100 to you!” 

“Good luck! A new thing! ‘The young devils 
will now have something to make a mess with,” re- 
plied the mother, crossly, as is her way. And she 
gave one of the children a smack, the second a dig in 
the ribs, and the third a twist of the ear. She is 
never satisfied, always cross, and always sour, exactly 
the opposite of father. 

The three pretty heads looked at the mother, 
and at the father, and at one another. The mo- 
ment their parents turned away, they threw them- 
selves on the floor, and put their faces to the sweet- 
smelling grass. They kissed it—the green grass 
that Jews need for “Shevuous,” and which is sold 
at the market. 

Everything is to be found at the market, even 
greens. The father buys everything. Jews want 
everything, even greens—even greens. 


78 


Greens for “Shevuous’’ 


On the eve of “Shevuous,” I induced my mother 
—peace be unto her!—to let me go off outside the 
town, by myself, to gather greens for the Festival. 

And my mother let me go off alone to gather the 
greens for the Festival. May she have a bright 
Paradise for that! 

A real pleasure is a pleasure that one enjoys by 
one’s self, without a companion, and without a 
single argument. I was alone, free as a bird, in 
the big cultivated field. Above me was the whole of 
the blue cap called “the sky.’’ For me alone 
shone the beautiful queen of the day, the sun. 
For my sake there came together, here in the 
big field, all the singers and warblers and dancers. 
For my sake there was spread before me the row 
of tall sunflowers, and the delicate growths were 
scattered all over the field by a benevolent nature. 
No one bothered me. No one prevented me from 
doing what I liked. No one saw me but God. 
And I could do what I liked. If I liked I might 
sing. If I liked I might shout and scream at the 
top of my voice. If I liked I might make a horn 
with my hands, and blow out a melody. If I liked 
I might roll on the green grass just as I was, curl- 
ing myself up like a hedgehog. Who was there to 

79 


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Jewish Children 


give me orders? And whom would } pay heed to? 
I was free—I was free. 

The day was so warm, the sun so beautiful, the 
sky so clear, the field so green, the grass so fresh, 
my heart so gay, and my soul so joyful that I forgot 
completely I was a stranger in the field and had 
merely come out to cut green boughs for “Shevu- 
005. I imagined I was a prince, and the whole 
field that my eyes rested on, and everything in the 
field, and even the blue sky above it—all were mine. 
I owned everything, and could do what I liked with 
it—I, and no one else. And like an overlord who 
had complete control of everything, I longed to 
show my power, my strength, my authority—all 
that I could and would do. 


First of all I was displeased with the tall giants 
with the yellow hats—the sunflowers. Suddenly 
they appeared to me as my enemies. And all the 
other plants with and without stalks, the beans and 
beanstalks, were enemies too. ‘They were the 
Philistines that had settled on my ground. Who 
had sent for them? And those thick green plants 
lying on the ground, with huge green heads—the 
cabbages, what are they doing here? They will 
only get drunk and bring a misfortune upon me. 
Let them go into the earth. I do not want them. 
Angry thoughts and fierce instincts awoke within 
me. A curious feeling of vengefulness took posses- 
sion of me. I began to avenge myself of my en- 
emies. And what a vengeance it was! 

I had with me all the tools I would need for cut- 
80 


Greens for פטסטטסתפ.‎ 


ting the green boughs for the Festival—pocket- 
knife with two blades, and a sword—a wooden 
sword, but a sharp one. 

This sword had remained with me after “L’ag 
Beomer.’ And although I had carried it with me 
when I had gone with my comrades to do battle out- 
side the town, yet I could swear to you, though you 
may believe me without an oath, that the sword 
had not spilled one drop of blood. It was one of 
those weapons that are carried about in times of 
peace. There was not a sign of war. It was 
quiet and peaceful around and about. I carried 
the sword because I wanted to. For the sake of 
peace, one must have in readiness swords and guns 
and rifles and cannon, horses and soldiers. May 
they never be needed for ill, as my mother used to 
say when she was making preserves. 


It is the same all the world over. In a war, 
one aims first at the leaders, the officers. It is 
better still if one can hit the general. After that 
the soldiers fall like chaff, in any event. Therefore 
you will not be surprised to hear that, first of all, 
I fell upon Goliath the Philistine. I gave him a 
good blow on the head with my sword, and a few 
good blows from the back. And the wicked one 
was stretched at my feet, full length. After that I 
knocked over a good many more wicked ones. I 
pulled the stalks out of the ground, and threw them 
to the devil. The short, fat green enemies I 
attacked in a different manner. Wherever I could, 
I took the green heads off. ‘The others I trampled 


81 


Jewish Children 


down with my feet. I made a heap of ashes of 
them. 

During a battle, when the blood is hot, and one is 
carried away by excitement, one cuts down every- 
thing that is at hand, right and left. When one 
is spilling blood, one loses one’s self, one does not 
know where one is in the world. At such a time, 
one does not honour old age. One does not care 
about weak women. One has no pity for little 
children. Blood is simply poured out like water. 
. . . When I was cutting down the enemy, I felt 
a hatred and a malice I had never experienced be- 
fore, immediately after I had delivered the first 
blow. The more 1 killed the more excited I be- 
came. 1 urged myself to go on. I was so beside 
myself, so enflamed, so ecstatic that I smashed up, 
and destroyed everything before me. I cut about 
me on all sides. Most of all the “‘little ones” 
suffered at my hands—the young peas in the fat 
little pods, the tiny cucumbers that were just show- 
ing above ground. These excited me by their si- 
lence and their coldness. And I gave them such a 
share that they would never forget me. I knocked 
off heads, tore open bellies, shattered to atoms, 
beat, murderéd, killed. May I know of evil as 
little as I know how I came to be so wicked. 
Innocent potatoes, poor things, that lay deep in the 
earth, I dug out, just to show them that there was 
no hiding from me. Little onions and green garlic 
1 tore up by the roots. Radishes flew about me 
like hail. And may the Lord punish me if I even 
tasted a single bite of anything. I remembered 


82 


Greens for “Shevuous” 
the law in the Bible forbidding it. And Jews do 


not plunder. Every minute, when an evil spirit 
came and tempted me to taste a little onion or a 
young garlic, the words of the Bible came into my 
mind. . . . But 1 did not cease from beating, 
breaking, wounding, and killing and cutting to 
pieces, old and young, poor and rich, big and little, 
without the least mercy. . . 

On the contrary, I imagined I heard their wails 
and groans and cries for mercy, and 1 was not 
moved. It was remarkable that I who could not 
bear to see a fowl slaughtered, or a cat beaten, or 
a dog insulted, or a horse whipped—I should be 
such a tyrant, such a murderer... . 

“Vengeance,” I shouted without ceasing, ‘‘ven- 
geance. I will have my revenge of you for all the 
Jewish blood that was spilled. I will repay you 
for Jerusalem, for the Jews of Spain and Portugal, 
and for the Jews of Morocco. Also for the Jews 
who fell in the past, and those who are falling to- 
day. And for the Scrolls of the Law that were 
formmmance tor sthe טע‎ Oh! Molly oht "Helm! 
Help! Who has me by the ear?” 

Two good thumps and two good smacks in the 
face at the one time sobered me on the instant. I 
saw before me a man who, [ could have sworn, was 
Okhrim, the gardener. 


Okhrim the gardener had for years cultivated 
fields outside the town. 116 rented a piece of 
ground, made a garden of it, and planted in it mel- 
ons and pumpkins, and onions and garlic and rad- 


83 


Jewish Children 


ishes and other vegetables. He made a good liv- 
ing in this way. How did I know Okhrim? 6 
used to deal with us. That is to say, he used to 
borrow money off my mother every Passover eve, 
and about “‘Succoth” time, he used to begin to pay 
it back by degrees. ‘These payments used to be en- 
tered on the inside cover of my mother’s prayer- 
book. There was a separate page for Okhrim, and 
a separate account. It was headed in big writing, 
“Okhrim’s account.”” Under these words came 
the entries: “A ‘rouble’ from Okhrim. Another 
‘rouble’ from Okhrim. Two ‘roubles’ from 
Okhrim. Half a ‘rouble’ from Okhrim. A sack 
of potatoes from Okhrim,” and so on... . And 
though my mother was not rich—a widow with 
children, who lived by money-lending—she took no 
interest from Okhrim. He used to repay us in gar- 
den-produce, sometimes more, sometimes less. We 
never quarrelled with him. 

If the harvest was good, he filled our cellar with 
potatoes and cucumbers to last us all the winter. 
And if the harvest was bad, he used to come and 
plead with my mother: ; 

‘Do not be offended, Mrs. Abraham, the harvest 
is bad.” 

My mother forgave him, and told him not to be 
greedy next year. 

“You may trust me, Mrs. Abraham, you may 
trust me,” Okhrim replied. And he kept his word. 
He brought us the first pickings of onions and gar- 
lic. We had new potatoes and green cucumbers 
before the rich folks. I heard our neighbours say, 


84 


Greens for “Shevuous” 


more than once, that the widow was not so badly 
08 as she said. “See, they bring her the best of 
everything.’ Of course, I at once told my mother 
what I had heard, and she poured out a few curses 
on our neighbours. 

‘Salt in their eyes, and stones in their hearts! 
Whoever begrudges me what I have, let him have 
nothing. I wish them to be in my position next 
year, 

Naturally, I at once told my neighbours what 
my mother had wished them; and, of course, for 
these words they were enraged against her. They 
called her by a name I was ashamed to hear... . 
Naturally I was angry, and at once told my mother 
of it. My mother gave me two smacks and told 
me to give up carrying “ ‘Purim’ presents’ from one 
to the other. The smacks pained, and the words 
““Purim’ presents” gnawed at my brain. I could 
not understand why she said “ ‘Purim’ presents.” 

I used to rejoice when I saw Okhrim from the 
distance, in his high boots and his thick, white, 
warm, woollen pellisse which he wore winter and 
summer. When I saw him, I knew he was bringing 
us a sackful of garden produce. And I flew into 
the kitchen to tell my mother the news that Okhrim 
was coming. 


I must confess that there was a sort of secret 
love between Okhrim and myself—a sort of sympa- 
thy that could not be expressed in words. We 
rarely spoke to one another. Firstly, because I did 
not understand his language, that is to say, I under- 


85 


Jewish Children 


stood his but he did not understand mine. 566- 
ondly, I was shy. How could I talk to such a big 
Okhrim? I had to ask my mother to be our inter- 
preter. 

‘Mother, ask him why he does not bring me some 
grapes.’ 

‘Where is he going to get them? ‘There are 0 
grapes growing in a vegetable garden.” 

‘Why are there no grapes in a vegetable garden?” 

‘Because vine trees do not grow with vegetables.” 

‘Why do vine trees not grow with vegetables?” 

‘“Why—why—why? You are a fool,” cried my 
mother, and gave me a smack in the face. 

“Mrs. Abraham, do not beat the child,” said 
Okhrim, defending me. 

That is the sort of Gentile Okhrim was. And 
it was in his hands I found myself that day when I 
waged war against the vegetables. 

This is what I believe took place: When Okhrim 
came up and saw his garden in ruins, he could not at 
once understand what had happened. When he saw 
me swinging my sword about me on all sides, he 
ought to have realized 1 was a terrible being, an evil 
spirit, a demon, and crossed himself several times. 
But when he saw that it was a Jewish boy who was 
fighting so vigorously, and with a wooden sword, he 
took hold of me by the ear with so much force that 
I collapsed, fell to the ground, and screamed in a 
voice unlike my own: 

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Who is pulling me by the ear?” 

It was only after Okhrim had given me a few 
good thumps and several resounding smacks that 


86 


Greens for פטסטטסםפ.‎ 


we encountered each other’s eyes and recognized 
one another. We were both so astonished that we 
were speechless. 

“Mrs. Abraham’s boy!” cried Okhrim, and he 
crossed himself. 116 began to realize the ruin I 
had brought on his garden. 116 scrutinized each 
bed and examined each little stick. He was so over- 
come that the tears filled his eyes. He stood fac- 
ing me, his hands folded, and he asked me only one 
solitary question: 

‘Why have you done this to me?” 

It was only then that I realized the mischief I had 
done, and whom I had done it to. 1 was so amazed 
at myself that I could only repeat: 

“Why? Why?” 

‘‘Come,” said Okhrim, and took me by the hand. 
I was bowed to the earth with fear. I imagined 
he was going to make an end of me. But Okhrim 
did not touch me. He only held me so tightly by 
the hand that my eyes began to bulge from my head. 
He brought me home to my mother, told her every- 
thing, and left me entirely in her hands. 


Need I tell you what I got from my mother? 
Need I describe for you her anger, and her fright, 
and how she wrung her hands when Okhrim told 
her in detail all that had taken place in his garden, 
and of all the damage I had done to his vegetables? 
Okhrim took his stick and showed my mother how 
I had destroyed everything on all sides, how I had 
smashed and broken, and trampled down everything 
with my feet, pulled the little potatoes out of the 


87 


Jewish .Children 


ground, and torn the tops off the little onions and 
the garlic that were just showing above the earth. 

‘And why? And wherefore? Why, Mrs. Abra- 
ham—why ?”’ 

Okhrim could say no more. The sobs stuck in 
his throat and choked him. 

I must tell you the real truth, children. I would: 
rather Okhrim with the strong arms had beaten me, 
than have got what 1 did from my mother, before 
“Shevuous,’ and what the teacher gave me after 
“Shevuous.” ... And the shame of it all. I 
was reminded of it all the year round by the boys 
at “Cheder.”’ They gave me a nickname—‘The 
Gardener.” I was Yossel ‘‘the gardener.” 

This nickname stuck to me almost until the day 
I was married. 

That is how I went to gather greens for “Shevu- 
ous.” 


88 


Another Page from “The 
Song of Songs” 


“Quicker, Busie, quicker!” I said to her the day 
before the “Shevuous.” I took her by the hand, 
and we went quickly up the hill. ‘The day will not 
stand still, little fool. And we have to climb such 
a high hill. After the hill we have another stream. 
Over the stream there are some boards—a little 
bridge. The stream flows, the frogs croak, and the 
boards shake and tremble. On the other side of 
the bridge, over there is the real Garden of Eden— 
over there begins my real property.” 

“Your property?” 

“T mean the Levada—a big field that stretches 
away and away, without a beginning and without an 
end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled 
with yellow flowers, and nailed down with little red 
nails. It gives out a delicious odour. The most 
fragrant spices in the world are there. 1 have trees 
there beyond the counting, tall many-branched trees. 
I have a little hill there that I sit on when I like. 
Or else, by pronouncing the Holy Name, I can rise 
up and fly away like an eagle, across the clouds, over 
fields and woods, over seas and deserts until I come 


89 


Jewish Children 


to the other side of the mountain of darkness.”’ 

‘“‘And from there,” puts in Busie, ‘“‘you walk seven 
miles until you come to a little stream.” 

‘No. To a thick wood. First I go in and out 
of the trees, and after that I come to the little 
stream.” 

“You swim across the water, and count seven 
times seven.” 

‘“‘And there appears before me a little old man 
with a long beard.”’ 

‘He asks you: ‘What is your desire?’ ”’ 

“T say to him: ‘Bring me the Queen’s daugh- 
ter.” 

Busie takes her hand from mine, and runs down 
the hill. 1 run after her. 

‘“Busie, why are you running off?” 

Busie does not answer. She is vexed. She likes 
the story I told her excepting the part about the 
Queen’s daughter. 


You have not forgotten who Busie is? I told 
you once. But if you have forgotten, I will tell 
you again. 

I had an older brother, Benny. He was 
drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young 
widow, two horses, and a little child. The mill was 
neglected; the horses were sold; the widow married 
again, and went away, somewhere far; and the child 
was brought tous. This child was Busie. 

Ha! ha! ha! Everybody thinks that Busie and I 
are sister and brother. She calls my mother 
“mother,” and my father “father.” And we two 


go 


Another Page 


live together like sister and brother, and love one 
another, like sister and brother. 

Like sister and brother? ‘Then why is Busie 
ashamed before me? 

It happened once that we two were left alone 
in the house—we two by ourselves in the whole 
house. It was evening, towards nightfall. My 
father had gone to the synagogue to recite the 
mourners’ prayer after my dead brother Benny, and 
my mother had gone out to buy matches. Busie 
and I crept into a corner, and 1 told her stories. 
Busie likes me to tell her stories—fine stories of 
“Cheder,’ or from the “Arabian Nights.’’ She 
crept close to me, and put her hand into mine. 

‘Tell me something, Shemak, tell me.”’ 

Softly fell the night around us. The shadows 
crept slowly up the walls, paused on the floor, and 
stole all around. We could hardly, hardly see one 
another’s face. I felt her hand trembling. I heard 
her little heart beating. 1 saw her eyes shin- 
ing in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand from 
mine. | 

“What is it, 120816 ?" 

‘We must not.” 

‘What must we not?” 

‘Hold each other’s hands.” 

“Why not? Who told you that?” 

“T know it myself.” 

“Are we strangers? Are we not sister and 
brother ?" 

‘Oh, if we were sister and brother,” cried Busie. 
And 1 imagined 1 heard in her voice the words from 


01 


Jewish Children 


the ‘Song of Songs,’ “O that thou wert as my 
brother.” 

It is always so. When 1 speak of Busie, I always 
think of the “Song of Songs.’ 


Where was I? I was telling you of the eve of 
the “Shevuous.’ Well, we ran down hill, Busie in 
front, I after her. She is angry with me because of 
the Queen’s daughter. She likes all my stories ex- 
cepting the one about the Queen’s daughter. But 
Busie’s anger need not worry one. It does not last 
long, no longer than it takes to tell of it. She is 
again looking up at me with her great, bright, 
thoughtful eyes. She tosses back her hair and says 
to me: 

‘“Shemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a 
sky! You do not see what is going on all around 
us.” 

“I see, little fool. Why should I not see? I see 
a sky. I feel a warm breeze blowing. I hear the 
birds piping and twittering as they fly over our heads. 
It is our sky, and our breeze. ‘The little birds are 
ours too—everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me 
your hand, Busie.” 

No, she will not give me her hand. She is 
ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed before me? 
Why does she grow red? 

“There,” says Busie to me—“over there, on the 
other side of the bridge.’’ And I imagine she is re- 
peating the words of the Shulamite in the ‘‘Song of 
Songs.” 


902 


Another Page 


‘‘Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; 
let us lodge in the villages. 

“Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if 
the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, 
and the pomegranates bud forth.” 

And we are at the little bridge. 


The stream flows; the frogs croak; the boards of 
the little bridge are shaking. Busie is afraid. 

‘Ah, Busie, you are a—— + Why are you afraid, 
little fool? Hold on to me. Or, let us take hold 
of one another, you of me, and I of you. See? 
That’s right—that’s right.” 

No more little bridge. 

We still cling to one another, as we walk along. 
We are alone in this Garden of Eden. Busie holds 
me tightly, very tightly. She is silent, but I imag- 
ine she is talking to me in the words from the ‘“‘Song 
of Songs’’: 

“My beloved is mine, and I am his.” 

The Levada is big. It stretches away without 
a beginning and without an end. It is covered with 
a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, and 
nailed down with red nails. It gives out a delicious 
odour—the most fragrant spices in the world are 
there. We walked along, embraced—we two alone 
in the Garden of Eden. 

‘‘Shemak,”’ says Busie to me, looking straight into 
my eyes, and nestling still closer to me, ‘‘when shall 
we start gathering the green boughs for the ‘Shevu- 
ous’ ?” 


o 


Jewish Children 


‘The day is long enough, little fool,” I say to 
her. 1 am on fire. 1 do not know where to look 
first, whether at the blue sky, or the green fields, or 
over there, at the end of the world, where the sky 
has become one with the earth. Or shall I look at 
Busie’s shining face—into her large beautiful eyes 
that are to me deep as the heavens and dreamy as 
the night? Her eyes are always dreamy. A deep 
sorrow lies hidden within them. ‘They are veiléd 
by a shade of melancholy. I know her sorrow. I 
am acquainted with the cause of her melancholy. 
She has a great grief in her heart. She is pained 
because her mother married a stranger, and went 
away from her for ever and ever, as if she had been 
nothing to her. In my home her mother’s name 
must not be mentioned. It is as if Busie had never 
had a mother. My mother is her mother, and my 
father is her father. They love her as if she were 
their own child. They fret over her, and give her 
everything that her heart desires. ‘There is nothing - 
too dear for Busie. She wanted to go with me to 
gather green boughs for the Festival decorations 
(I told her to ask it), and my father said to my 
mother: 

‘What do you think?” 116 looked over his sil- 
ver spectacles, and stroked the silver white hair of 
his beard. And there went on an argument between 
my father and mother about our going off outside 
the town to gather green boughs for the “Shevu- 
ous.” 

Father: “What do you say?” 

Mother: ‘What do you say?” 


94 


Another Page 


Father: ‘Shall we let them go?” 

Mother: ‘‘Why should we not let them go?” 
Father: “Do I say we should not?” 

Mother: ‘‘What then are you saying?” 

Father: “I am saying that we should let them 
Mother: “Why should they not go?” 

And so forth. I know what is worrying them. 
About twenty times my mother warned me, my 
father repeating the words after her, that there is 
a bridge to be crossed, and under the little bridge 
there is a water—a stream, a stream, a stream. 


0 


We, Busie and I, have long forgotten the little 
bridge and the river, the stream. We are going 
across the broad free Levada, under the blue, open 
sky. We run across the green field, fall and roll 
about on the sweet-smelling grass. We get up, fall 
again, and roll about again, and yet again. We 
have not yet gathered a single green leaf for the 
Festival decorations. I take Busie over the length 
and breadth of the Levada. 1 show off before her 
with my property. 

‘Do you see those trees? Do you 866 this sand? 
Do you see that little 8111?" 

‘Are they all yours?” asks Busie. Her eyes are 
laughing. 1 am annoyed because she laughs at me. 
She always laughs at me. I get sulky and turn 
away from her for a moment. Seeing that I am 
sulky, she goes in front of me, looks into my eyes, 
takes my hand, and says to me: “Shemak!” My 
sulks are gone and allis forgotten. I take her hand 


95 


Jewish Children 


and lead her to my hill, there where I sit always, 
every summer. If I like I sit down, and if I like 
I rise up with the help of the Lord, by pronouncing 
His Holy Name. And I fly off like an eagle, above 
the clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and des- 
erts. 


We sit on the hill, Busie and I. (We have not 
yet gathered a single green leaf for the Festival.) 
We tell stories. That is to say, I tell stories, and 
she listens. I tell her what will happen at some far, 
far off ttme. When 1 ama man and she is a woman 
we will get married. We will both rise up, by pro- 
nouncing the Holy Name, and travel the whole 
world. First we will go to all the countries that 
Alexander the Great was in. Then we will run 
over to the Land of Israel. We will go to the Hills 
of Spices, fill our pockets with locust-beans, figs, 
dates, and olives, and fly off further and still further. 
And everywhere we will play a different sort of trick, 
for no one will see us. 

‘Will no one see us?’’ asks Busie, catching hold 
of my hand. 

one—no one. We shall see every one, but‏ סאי 
no one will see us.”’‏ 

‘In that case, I have something to ask you.”’ 

“A request ?”’ 

‘A little request.” 

But I know her little request—to fly off to where 
her mother is, and play a little trick on her step- 
father. 

“Why not?” 1 say to her. “With the greatest 

00 


Another Page 


of pleasure. You may leave it to me, little fool. 
I can do something which they will not forget in a 
hurry.” 

“Not them, him alone,” pleads Busie. But I 
do not give in so readily. When I get into a tem- 
per it is dangerous. Why should I forgive her for 
what she has done to Busie, the cheeky woman? 
The idea of marrying another man and going off 
with him, the devil knows where, leaving her child 
behind, and never even writing a letter! Did any 
one ever hear of such a wrong? 


I excited myself for nothing. I was as sorry as 
if dogs were gnawing at me, but it was too late. 
Busie had covered her face with her two hands. 
Was she crying? I could have torn myself to 
pieces. What good had it done me to open her 
wound by speaking of her mother? In my own 
heart I called myself every bad name I could think 
of: “Horse, Beast, Ox, Cat, Good-for-nothing, 
Long-tongue.”” I drew closer to Busie, and took 
hold of her hand. I was about to say to her, the 
words of the ‘‘Song of Songs’’: 

‘Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy 
voice.” | 

Suddenly—How do my father and mother come 
here? 


My father’s silver spectacles shine from the dis- 
tance. The silver strands of his hair and beard 
are spread out on the breeze. My mother is wav- 
ing her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain 


27 


Jewish Children 


sitting. We are like paralysed. What are my par- 
ents doing here? 

They had come to see what we were doing. 
They were afraid some accident had befallen us— 
God forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge, 
a water, a stream, a stream, a stream! Curious 
father and mother. 

‘‘And where are your green boughs?” 

‘“‘What green boughs?” 

‘The green boughs that you went to gather for 
the ‘Shevuous’ decorations.” 

Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood 
her looks. I imagined 1 heard her saying to me, in 
the words of the ‘Song of Songs’’: 

‘“O that thou wert as my brother!’ . . . Why 
are you not my brother?” 


“Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for 
‘Shevuous’ somehow,” says my father with a smile. 
And the silver strands of his silver-white beard 
glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. 
“Thank God the children are well, and that no ill 
has befallen them.” 

‘Praised be the 1,014!" replies my mother to 
him, wiping her moist red face with the ends of her 
shawl. And they are both glad. ‘They seem to 
grow broader than long with delight. 

Curious, curious father and mother! 


98 


A Pity for the Living 


“Tf you were a good boy, you would help us to 
scrape the horse-radish until we are ready with the 
fish for the holy festival.” 

‘That was what my mother said to me on the eve 
of “Shevuous,’ about mid-day. She was helping 
the cook to prepare the fish for the supper. The 
fishes were still alive and wriggling. When they 
were put into a clay basin and covered with water 
they were still struggling. 

More than any of the others there struggled a 
little carp with a broad back, and a round head 
and red eyes. It seemed that the little carp had 
a strong desire to get back into the river. It strug- 
gled hard. It leaped out of the basin, flapped its 
tail, and splashed the water right into my face. 
‘Little boy, save me! Little boy, save me!” 

I wiped my face, and betook myself to the task 
of scraping the horse-radish for the supper. I 
thought within myself, “Poor little fish. 1 can do 
nothing for you. They will soon take you in hand. 
You will be scaled and ripped open, cut into pieces, 
put in a pot, salted and peppered, placed on the fire, 
and boiled and simmered, and simmered, and sim- 
mered.”’ 


99 


Jewish Children 


“Tt’s a pity,” 1 said to my mother. “It’s a pity 
for the living.” 

“Of whom is it a pity?” 

‘Tt’s a pity of the little fishes.” 

‘Who told you that?” 

‘The teacher.” 

“The: teacher?” 

She exchanged glances with the cook who was 
helping her, and they both laughed aloud. 

‘You are a fool, and your teacher a still greater 
fool. Ha! ha! Scrape the horse-radish, scrape 
away.’ 

That I was a fool I knew. My mother told me 
that frequently, and my brothers and my sisters 
too. But that my teacher was a greater fool than 
I—that was news to me. 


I have a comrade, Pinalle, the “Shochet’s’’ son. 
I was at his house one day, and 1 saw how a little 
girl carried a fowl, a huge cock, its legs tied with 
2 string. My comrade’s father, the ‘“Shochet,” was 
asleep, and the little girl sat at the door and waited. 
The cock, a fine strong bird, tried to get out of the 
girl’s arms. He drove his strong feet into her, 
pecked at her hand, let out from his throat a loud 
‘‘Cock-a-doodle-doo!”’ protested as much as 6 
could. But the girl was no weakling either. She 
thrust the head of the rooster under her arm and 
dug her elbows into him, saying: 

“Be still, you wretch!” 

And he obeyed and remained silent. 

When the “Shochet” woke up, he washed his 
100 


A Pity for the Living 


hands and took out his knife. He motioned to have 
the bird handed to him. I imagined that the cock 
changed colour. He must have thought that he 
was going to be freed to race back to his hens, to 
the corn and the water. But it was not so. The 
“Shochet” turned him round, caught him between 
his knees, thrust back his head with one hand, with 
the other plucked out a few little feathers, pro- 
nounced a blessing—heck! the knife was drawn 
across his throat. 116 was cast away. I thought 
he would fall to pieces. 

“Pinalle, your father is a heathen,” I said to my 
comrade. 

‘Why is he a heathen ?”’ 

‘He has in him no pity for the living.” 

“T did not know you were so clever,’ said my com- 
rade, and he pulled a long nose right into my face. 


Our cook is blind of one eye. She is called 
‘“Fruma with the little eye.” She is a girl without 
a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for 
having run away with a little liver from the board. 
Afterwards, when she counted the fowls and the 
livers, it turned out that she had made a mistake. 
She had thought there were seven fowls, and, of 
course, seven little livers, and there were only six. 
And if there were only six fowls there could be only 
six little livers. Marvellous! She had accused the 
cat wrongly. 

You might imagine that Fruma was sorry and 
apologized to the cat. But it appeared she forgot 
all about it. And the cat, too, forgot all about it. 


101 


Jewish Children 


A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking 
herself as if nothing had happened. It’s not for 
nothing that people say: “A cat’s brains!”’ 

But I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I 
said to the cook: ‘‘You beat the cat for nothing. 
You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for the 
living. The Lord will punish you.” 

“Will you go away, or else I'll give it you across 
the face with the towel.” 

That is what ‘“‘Fruma with the little eye” said to 
me. And she added: 

“Tord Almighty! Wherever in the world do 


such children come from ? 


It was all about a dog that had been scalded with 
boiling water by the same “Fruma with the little 
eye.’ Ah, how much pain it caused the dog. It 
squealed, howled and barked with all its might, fill- 
ing the world with noise. The whole town came 
together at the sound of his howling, and laughed, 
and laughed. All the dogs in the town barked out 
of sympathy, each from his own kennel, and each 
after his own fashion. One might think that they 
had been asked to bark. Afterwards, when the 
scalded dog had finished howling, he moaned and 
muttered and licked his sores, and growled softly. 
My heart melted within me. I went over to him 
and was going to fondle him. 

Here, Sirko!” 

The dog, seeing my raised hand, jumped up as if 
he had been scalded again, took his tail between his 
legs and ran away—away. 

102 


A Pity for the Living 


“Shah! Sirko!’’ 1 said trying to soothe him with 
soft words. ‘Why do you run away like that, fool? 
Am I doing you any harm?” 

A dogisa dog. His tongue is dumb. 116 knows 
nothing of pity for the living. 

My father saw me running after the dog and he 
pounced down on me. 

“Go into ‘Cheder,’ dog-beater.”’ 

Then I was the dog-beater. 


It was salt a two little pas nee tiny little 
birds that two boys, one big and one small, had 
killed. When the two little birds dropped from the 
tree they were still alive. Their feathers were 
ruffled. They fluttered their wings, and trembled 
in every limb. 

“Get up, you hedgehog,” said the big boy to the 
small boy. And they took the little birds in their 
hands and beat their heads against the tree-trunk, un- 
til they died. 

I could not contain myself, but ran over to the two 
boys. 

‘““What are you doing here?” I asked. 

“What’s that to do with you?” they demanded 
in Russian. ‘What harm is it?” they asked calmly. 
“They are no more than birds, ordinary little 
birds.” 

‘And if they are only birds? Have you no pity 
for the living—no mercy for the little birds?” 

The boys looked curiously at one another, and 
as if they had already made up their minds in ad- 
vance to do it, they at once fell upon me. 


103 


Jewish Children 


When I came home, my torn jacket told the story, 
and my father gave me the good beating I deserved. 

“Ragged fool!” cried my mother. 

I forgave her for the “‘ragged fool,” but why did 
she also beat me? 


Why was 1 beaten? Does not our teacher him- 
self tell us that all creatures are dear to the Lord? 
Even a fly on the wall must not be hurt, he says, out 
of pity for the living. Even a spider, that is an evil 
spirit, must not be killed either, he tells us emphat- 
ically. 

‘Tf the spider deserved to die, then the Lord Him- 
self would slay him.” 

Then comes the question: Very well, if that is 
so, then why do the people slaughter cows and calves 
and sheep and fowls every day of the week? 

And not only cows and other animals and fowls, 
but do not men slaughter one another? At the time 
when we had the “Pogrom,”’ did not men throw 
down little children from the tops of houses? Did 
they not kill our neighbours’ little girl? Her name 
was Peralle. And how did they kill her? 

Ah, how I loved that little 2101 And how that 
little girl loved me! ‘Uncle Bebebe,” she used to 
call me. (My name is Velvalle.) And she used 
to pull me by the nose with her small, thin, sweet 
little fingers. Because of her, because of Peralle, 
every one calls me “Uncle Bebebe.”’ 

‘Here comes Uncle Bebebe, and he will take you 
in hand.” 


104. 


A Pity for the Living 

Peralle was a sickly child. ‘That is to say, in the 
ordinary way she was all right, but she could not 
walk, neither walk nor stand, only sit. They used 
to carry her into the open and put her sitting in the 
sand, right in the sun. She loved the sun, loved it 
terribly. I used to carry her about. She used to 
clasp me around the neck with her small, thin, sweet 
little fingers, and nestle her whole body close to me 
—closer and closer. She would put her head on my 
shoulder. ‘‘I love Uncle Bebebe.”’ 

Our neighbour Krenni says she cannot forget Un- 
cle Bebebe to this day. When she sees me, she 
says she is again reminded of her Peralle. 

My mother is angry with her for weeping. 

‘‘We must not weep,” says my mother. ‘We 
must not sin. We must forget—forget.” 

That is what my mother says. She interrupts 
Krenni in the middle and drives me off. 

“Tf you don’t get into our eyes, we won't remem- 
ber that which we must 804. 

Ha! ha! How is it possible to forget? When 
I think of that little girl the tears come into my 
eyes of their own accord—of their own accord. 

‘See, he weeps again, the wise one,’ cries 
“Fruma with the little eye’? to my mother. My 
mother gives me a quick glance and laughs aloud. 

‘The horse-radish has gone into your eyes. 
The devil take you. It’s a hard piece of horse- 
radish. I forgot to tell him to close his eyes. 
Woe is me! Here is my apron. Wipe your eyes, 
foolish boy. And your nose, too, wipe at the same 
time your nose, your nose.” 


108 


The אה‎ 


There are people who have never been taught 
anything, and know everything, have never been 
anywhere, and understand everything, have never 
given a moment’s thought to anything, and compre- 
hend everything. 

‘Blessed hands” is the name bestowed on these 
fortunate beings. The world envies, honours and 
respects them. 

There was such a man in our town, Kassrillevka. 
They called him Moshe-for-once, because, what- 
ever he heard or saw or made, he exclaimed: 

“Tt 1s such-and-such a thing for once.” 

A new cantor in the synagogue—he is a cantor 
for once. 

Some one is carrying a turkey for the Passover— 
it is a turkey for once. 

‘There will be a fine frost tomorrow.” 

‘fA fine frost for 0806. 

‘There were blows exchanged at the meeting.” 

‘Good blows for once.” 

“Oh, Jews, 1 am a poor man.” 

“A poor man for once.” 

And so of everything. 

Moshe was a I cannot tell you what Moshe 
was. He was a Jew, but what he lived by it would 
106 


The Tabernacle 


be hard to say. 116 lived as many thousands of 
Jews live in Kassrillevka—tens of thousands. He 
hovered around the overlord. ‘That is, not the 
overlord himself, but the gentlefolks that were with 
the overlord. And not around the gentlefolks 
themselves, but around the Jews that hovered 
around the gentlefolks who were with the overlord. 
And if he made a living—that was another story. 
Moshe-for-once was a man who hated to boast of 
his good fortune, or to bemoan his ill-fortune. He 
was always jolly. His cheeks were always red. 
One end of his moustache was longer than the 
other. His hat was always on one side of his head; 
and his eyes were always smiling and kindly. He 
never had any time, but was always ready to walk 
ten miles to do any one a favour. 
That’s the sort of a man Moshe-for-once was. 


There wasn’t a thing in the world Moshe-for 
once could not make—a house, or a clock, or a ma- 
chine, a lamp, a spinning-top, a tap, a mirror, a cage, 
and what not. 

True, no one could point to the houses, the clocks, 
or the machines that came from his hands; but every 
one was satisfied Moshe could make them. Every 
one said that if need be, Moshe could turn the world 
upside down. ‘The misfortune was that he had 0 
tools. 1 mean the contrary. That was his good 
fortune. ‘Through this, the world was not turned 
upside down. That is, the world remained a world. 

That Moshe was not torn to pieces was a miracle. 
When a lock went wrong they came to Moshe. 


107 


Jewish Children 
When the clock stopped, or the tap of the “Sam- 


ovar’ went out of order, or there appeared in a 
house blackbeetles, or bugs, or other filthy creatures, 
it was always Moshe who was consulted. Or whena 
fox came and choked the fowls, whose advice was 
asked? It was always and ever Moshe-for-once. 

True, the broken lock was thrown away, the 
clock had to be sent to a watchmaker, and the 
“Samovar’ to the copper-smith. The blackbeetles, 
and bugs and other filthy things were not at all 
frightened of Moshe. And the fox went on doing 
what a fox ought to do. But Moshe-for-once still 
remained the same Moshe-for-once he had been. 
After all, he had blessed hands; and no doubt he 
had something in him. A world cannot be mad. 
In proof of this—why do the people not come to 
you or me with their broken locks, or broken clocks, 
or for advice how to get rid of foxes, or blackbeetles 
and bugs and other filthy things? All the people 
in the world are not the same. And it appears that 
talent is rare. 


We became very near neighbours with this Moshe- 
for-once. We lived in the same house with him, 
under the one roof. I say became, because, before 
that, we lived in our own house. The wheels of for- 
tune suddenly turned round for us. ‘Times grew 
bad. We did not wish to be a burden to any one. 
We sold our house, paid our debts, and moved into 
Hershke Mamtzes’ house. It was an old ruin, with- 
out a garden, without a yard, without a paling, with- 
out a body, and without life. 

108 


The Tabernacle 


‘Well, it’s a hut,” said my mother, pretending 
to be merry. But I saw tears in her eyes. 

“Do not sin,” said my father, who was black as 
the earth. “Thank God for 4819. 

Why for “this,” I do not know. Perhaps because 
we were not living on the street? I would rather 
have lived on the street than in this house, with 
strange boys and girls whom I did not know, nor 
wish to know, with their yellow hair, and their 
running noses, with their thin legs and fat bellies. 
When they walked they waddled like ducks. They 
did nothing but eat, and when any one else was eat- 
ing, they stared right into his mouth. 

I was very angry with the Lord for having taken 
our house from us. I was not sorry for the 
house as for the Tabernacle we had there. It 
stood from year to year. It hada roof that could 
be raised and lowered, and a beautiful carved ceiling 
of green and yellow boards, made into squares with 
a “Shield of David” in the middle. True, kind 
friends told us to hope on, for we should one day 
buy the house back, or the Lord would help us to 
build another, and a better, and a bigger anda 
handsomer house than the one we had had to sell. 
But all this was cold comfort to us. I heard the 
same sort of words when I broke my tin watch, 
accidentally, of course, into fragments. My mother 
smacked me, and my father wiped my eyes, and 
promised to buy me a better, and bigger and hand- 
somer watch than the one I broke. But the more 
my father praised the watch he was going to buy 
for me, the more I cried for the other, the old 


109 


Jewish Children 


watch. When my father was not אט‎ my 
mother wept silently for the old house. And my 
father sighed and groaned. Ai black cloud settled 
on his face, and his big white forehead was covered 
with wrinkles. 

I thought it was very wrong of the Father of the 
Universe to have taken our house from us. 


“T ask you—-may your healt increase !—what 
are we going to do with the Tabernacle?” asked my 
mother of my father some time before the Feast 
of Tabernacles. 

‘You probably mean to ask what are we going 
to do without a Tabernacle?” replied my father, 
attempting to jest. I saw that he was distressed. 
He turned away to one side, so that we might not 
see his face, which was covered with a thick black 
cloud. My mother blew her nose to swallow her 


tears. And I, looking at them. . . . Suddenly my 
father turned to us with a lively expression on his 
face. 

‘Hush! We have here a neighbour called 
Moshe.” 


‘‘Moshe-for-once?”’ asked my mother. And 1 do 
not know whether she was making fun or was in ear- 
nest. It seemed she was in earnest, for, half an hour 
later, the three were going about the house, father, - 
Moshe, and Hershke Mamtzes, our landlord, look- 


ing for a spot on which to erect a Tabernacle. 


Hershke Mamtzes’ house was all right. It had 
110 


The Tabernacle 


only one fault. It stood on the street, and had not 
a scrap of yard. It looked as if it had been lost 
in the middle of the road. Somebody was walking 
along and lost a house, without a yard, without a 
roof, the door on the other side of the street, like 
a coat with the waist in front and the buttons under- 
neath. If you talk to Hershke, he will bore you 
to death about his house. 116 will tell you how he 
came by it, how they wanted to take it from him, 
and how he fought for it, until it remained with 
him. 

“Where do you intend to erect the Tabernacle, 
‘Reb’ Moshe?” asked father of Moshe-for-once. 
And Moshe-for-once, his hat on the back of his head, 
was lost in thought, as if he were a great architect 
formulating a big plan. 116 pointed with his hand 
from here to there, and from there to here. He 
tried to make us understand that if the house were 
not standing in the middle of the street, and if it 
had had a yard, we would have had two walls ready 
made, and he could have built us a Tabernacle in 
a day. Why 40 1 547 מ!‎ 2 027? Inanhour. But 
since the house had no yard, and we needed four 
walls, the Tabernacle would take a little longer to 
build. But for that again, we would have a Taber- 
nacle for once. ‘The main thing was to get the ma- 
terial. 

“There will be materials. Have you the tools?” 
asked Hershke. | 

“The tools will be found. Have you the tim- 
ber?” asked Moshe. 


111 


Jewish Children 


“There is timber. Have you the nails?” asked 
Hershke. 

‘Nails can be got. Have you the fir-boughs?”’ 
asked Moshe. 

‘Somehow, you are a little too so-so today,” 
said Hershke. 

‘A little too what?” asked Moshe. ‘They looked 
each other straight in the eyes, and both burst out 
laughing. 


When Hershke Mamtzes brought the first few 
boards and beams, Moshe said that, please God, it 
would be a Tabernacle for once. I wondered how 
he was going to make a Tabernacle out of the few 
boards and beams. I begged of my mother to let 
me stand by whilst Moshe was working. And 
Moshe not only let me stand by him, but even let me 
be his assistant. 1 was to hand him what he wanted, 
and hold things for him. 

Of course this put me into the seventh heaven 
of delight. Was it a trifle to help build the Taber- 
nacle? I was of great assistance to Moshe. I 
moved my lips when he hammered; went for meals 
when he went; shouted at the other children not 
to hinder us; handed Moshe the hammer when he 
wanted the chisel, and the pincers when he wanted 
a nail. Any other man would have thrown the 
hammer or pincers at my head for such help, but 
Moshe-for-once had no temper. No one had ever 
had the privilege of seeing him angry. 

‘Anger is a sinful thing. It does as little good 
as any sin.” 

112 


The Tabernacle 


And because I was greatly absorbed in the work, 
I did not notice how and by what miracle the 
Tabernacle came into being. 

‘‘Come and see the Tabernacle we have built,’’ 
I said to father, and dragged him out of the house 
by the tails of his coat. My father was delighted 
with our work. 116 looked at Moshe with a smile, 
and said, pointing to me: 

‘Had you at any rate a little help from him?” 

‘It was a help, for once,’ replied Moshe, 
looking up at the roof of the Tabernacle with 
anxious eyes. 

“If only our Hershke brings us the fir-boughs, 
it will be a Tabernacle for 0866. 

Hershke Mamtzes worried us about the fir- 
boughs. He put off going for them from day to 
day. 106 day before the Festival he went off and 
brought back a cart-load of thin sticks, a sort of 
weeds, such as grow on the banks of the river. And 
we began to cover the Tabernacle. ‘That is to say, 
Moshe did the work, and 1 helped him by driving 
off the goats which had gathered around the fir- 
boughs, as if they were something worth while. 
I do not know what taste they found in the bitter 
green stalks. | 

Because the house stood alone, in the middle of 
the street, there was no getting rid of the goats. If 
you drove one off another came up. ‘The second 
was only just got rid of, when the first sprang up 
again. I drove them off with sticks. 

“Get out of this. Are you here again, foolish 
goats? Get off.” 


113 


Jewish Children 


The devil knows how they found out we had 
green fir-boughs. It seems they told one another, 
because there gathered around us all the goats of 
the town. And J, all alone, had to do battle with 
them. 

The Lord helped us, and we had all the fir- 
boughs on the roof. The goats remained standing 
around us like fools. ‘They looked up with foolish 
eyes, ‘and stupidly ,/chewed the cud. I had my 
revenge of them, and I said to them: 

‘Why don’t you take the fir-boughs now, foolish 
goats?” 

They must have understood me, for they began 
to go off, one by one, in search of something to 
eat. And we began to decorate the Tabernacle 
from the inside. First of all, we strewed the floor 
with sand; then we hung on the walls all the wadded 
quilts belonging to the neighbours. Where there 
was no wadded quilt, there hung a shawl, and 
where there was no shawl, there was a sheet or a 
table-cloth. Then we brought out all the chairs 
and tables, the candle-sticks and candles, the 
plates and knives and forks and spoons. And 
each of the three women of the house made the 
blessing over her own candles for the Feast of 
Tabernacles. 


My mother—peace be unto her!—was a woman 
who loved to weep. The Days of Mourning were 
her Days of Rejoicing. And since we had lost our 
own house, her eyes were not dry for a single 


114 


The Tabernacle 


minute. My father, though he was also fretted, 
did not like this. He told her to fear the Lord, 
and not sin. There were worse circumstances than 
ours, thank God. But now, in the Tabernacle, when 
she was blessing the Festival candles, she could cover 
her face with her hands and weep in silence with- 
out any one knowing it. But I was not to be fooled. 
I could see her shoulders heaving, and the tears 
trickling through her thin white fingers. And 
I even knew what she was weeping for. . . . It 
was well for her that father was getting ready to go 
to synagogue, putting on his Sabbath coat that was 
tattered, but was still made of silk, and his plaited 
silk girdle. 116 thrust his hands into his girdle, 
and said to me, sighing deeply: 

“Come, let us go. It is time we went to syna- 
gogue to pray.” 

I took the prayer-books, and we went off. 
Mother remained at home to pray. I knew what 
she would do—weep. She might weep as much as 
she liked, for she would be alone. And it was so. 
When we came back, and entered the Tabernacle, 
and father started to make the blessing over the 
wine, I looked into her eyes, and they were red, and 
had swollen lids. Her nose was shining. Never- 
theless, she was to me beautiful as Rachel or Abigail, 
or the Queen of Sheba, or Queen Esther. Looking 
at her, I was reminded of all our beautiful Jewish 
women with whom I had just become acquainted at 
“Cheder.’ And looking at my mother, with her 
lovely face that looked lovelier above the lovely silk 


118 


Jewish Children 


shawl she wore, with her large, beautiful, careworn 
eyes, my heart was filled with pain that such lovely 
eyes should be tear-stained always—that such lovely 
white hands should have to bake and cook. And I 
was angry with the Lord because He did not give 
us a lot of money. And I prayed to the Lord 
to destine me to find a treasure of gold and dia- 
monds and brilliants. Or let the Messiah come, 
and we would go back to the Land of Israel, where 
we should all be happy. 

This was what I thought. And my imagination 
carried me far, far away, to my golden dreams that 
I would not exchange for all the money in the 
world. And the beautiful Festival prayers, sung 
by my father in his softest and most melodious voice, 
rang in my ears. 

‘Thou hast chosen us above all peoples, 

‘Us hast Thou chosen 

“Of all the nations.” | 

Is it a trifle to be God’s chosen people? To be 
God’s only child? My heart was glad for the 
happy chosen people. And I imagined I was a 
prince. Yes, a prince. And the Tabernacle was 
a palace. The Divine Holiness rested on it. My 
mother was the beautiful daughter of Jerusalem, 
the Queen of Sheba. And on the morrow we would 
make the blessing over the most beautiful fruit in 
the world—the citron. Ah, who could compare 
with me? Who could compare with me? 


After father, Moshe-for-once pronounced the 
blessing over the wine. It was not the same blessing 


116 


The Tabernacle 


as my father’s—but, really not. After him, the 
landlord, Hershke Mamtzes pronounced the blessing 
over the wine. He was a commonplace man, and 
it was a commonplace blessing. We went to wash 
our hands, and we pronounced the blessing over 
the bread. And each of the three women brought 
out the food for her family—fine, fresh, seasoned, 
pleasant, fragrant fish. And each family sat around 
its own table. There were many dishes; a lot 
of people had soup; a lot of mouths were eating. 
A little wind blew into the Tabernacle, through the 
frail thin walls, and the thin roof of fir-boughs. 
The candles spluttered. Every one was eating 
heartily the delicious Festival supper. And I 
imagined it was not a Tabernacle but a palace—a 
great, big, brilliantly lit-up palace. And we Jews, 
the chosen people, the princes, were sitting in the 
palace and enjoying the pleasures of life. ‘“‘It is 
well for you, little Jews,” thought I. ‘‘No one is 
so well-off as you. No one else is privileged to sit 
in such a beautiful palace, covered with green fir- 
boughs, strewn with yellow sand, decorated with 
the most beautiful tapestries in the world, on the 
tables the finest suppers, and real Festival fish which 
is the daintiest of all dainties. And who speaks 
of ” Suddenly, crash! The whole roof and 
the fir-boughs are on our heads. One wall after the 
other is falling in. A goat fell from on high, right 
on top of us. It suddenly grew pitch dark. All 
the candles were extinguished. All the tables were 
over-turned. And we all, with the suppers and the 
crockery and the goat, were stretched out on the 


117 


Jewish Children 


sand. ‘The moon shone, and the stars peeped out, 
and the goat jumped up, frightened, and stood on 
its thin legs, stock-still, while it stared at us with 
foolish eyes. It soon marched off, like an insolent 
creature, over the tables and chairs, and over 
our heads, bleating ‘‘Meh-eh-eh-eh!” The candles 
were extinguished; the crockery smashed; 6 
supper in the sand; and we were all frightened to 
death. The women were shrieking, the children 
crying. It was a destruction of everything—a real 
destruction. 


“You built a fine Tabernacle,” said Hershke 
Mamtzes to us in such a voice, as if we had had from 
him for building the Tabernacle goodness knows 
how much money. “It was a fine Tabernacle, when 
one goat could overthrow it.” 

“It was a Tabernacle for once,” replied Moshe- 
for-once. He stood like one beaten, looking up- 
wards, to see whence the destruction had come. 
“Tt was a Tabernacle for once.” 

“Yes, a Tabernacle for once,” repeated Hershke 
Mamtzes, in a voice full of deadly venom. And 
every one echoed his words, all in one voice: 

‘“A Tabernacle for 0006. 


118 


The Dead Citron 


My name is Leib. When 1 am called up to read 
the portion of the Law it is by the name of Yehudah- 
Leib. At home, I sign myself Lyef Moishevitch. 
Amongst the Germans I am known as Herr Leon. 
Here in England, 1 am Mr. Leon. When 1 was 2 
child I was called Leibel. At “Cheder” 1 was Lieb- 
Dreib-Obderick. You must know that at our 
“Cheder’ every boy has a nickname. For instance 
—‘‘Mottel-Kappotel,”’ “‘Meyer-Dreyer,” ‘‘Mendel- 
Fendel,” ‘“Chayim-Clayim,”  ‘“‘Itzig-Shpitzig,” 
‘“Berel-[zap.” Did you ever hear such rhymes? 
That Itzig rhymes with Shpitzig, and Mendel with 
Fendel, and Chayim with Clayim is correct. But 
what has Berel to do with Tzap, or how does 
Leib rhyme with Obderick? I did not like my 
nickname. And I fought about it. I got blows 
and thumps and smacks and whacks and pinches 
and kicks from all sides. I was black and blue. 
Because 1 was the smallest in the “Cheder’’—the 
smallest and the weakest and the poorest, no one 
defended me. On the contrary, the two rich boys 
tortured me. One got on top of me, and the other 
pulled me by the ear. Whilst the third—a poor 
boy—sang a song to tease me— 


119 


Jewish Children 


“Just so! Just so! 
Give it to him. 
Punch him. 

Bang him. 

His little limbs, 
His little limbs. 
Just so! Just so! 

At such times I lay quiet as a kitten. And 
when they let me go I went into a corner and 
wept silently. I wiped my eyes, went back to my 
comrades, and was all right again. 

Just a word—whenever you meet the name 
Leibel in this story, you will know it refers to 
me. 

I am soft as down, short and fat. In reality, 
I am not so fat as I look. On the contrary, I am 
rather bony, but I wear thick, wadded little 

trousers, a thick, wadded vest, and a thick wadded 
coat. You see my mother wants me to be warm. 
She is afraid I might catch cold, God forbid! 
And she wraps me in cotton-wool from head to 
foot. She believes that cotton-wool is very good 
to wrap a boy in, but must not be used for making 
balls. I provided all the boys with cotton-wool. 
I pulled it out of my trousers and coat until she 
caught me. She beat me, and whacked me, and 
thumped me and pinched me. But Leibel went 
on doing what he liked—distributing cotton-wool. 

My face is red, my cheeks rather blue, and my 
nose always running. ‘Such a nose!” 0169 צמז‎ 
mother. “If he had no nose, he would be all right. 
He would have nothing to freeze in the cold 
weather.” I often try to picture to myself what 
10 


The Dead Citron 


would happen if I had no nose at all. If people 
had no noses, what would they look like? Then 
the question is—? But I was going to tell you 
the story of a dead citron, and I have wandered 
off to goodness knows where. I will break off in 
the middle of what I was saying, and go back to 
the story of the dead citron. 


My father, Moshe-Yankel, has been a clerk at 
an insurance company’s office for many years. 
He gets five and a half “roubles” a week. He is 
waiting for a rise in wages. He says that if he 
gets his rise this year, please God, he will buy a 
citron. But my mother, Basse-Beila, has no 
faith in this. She says the barracks will fall down 
before father will get a rise. 

One day, shortly before the New Year, Leibel 
overheard the following conversation between his 
father and his mother. 

He: ‘Though the world turn upside down, 
1 must have 2 citron this year!” 

She: ‘The world will not turn upside down, 
and you will have no citron.”’ 

He: ‘“‘That’s what you say. But supposing 
I have already been promised something towards 
a citron?” 

She: “It will have to be written into the books 
of Jests. In the month called after the town of 
Kreminitz a miracle happened—a bear died in the 
forest. But what then? If I do not believe it, 
I shall not be a great heretic either.” 

He: “You may believe or not. I tell you that 


121 


Jewish Children 


this Feast of Tabernacles, we shall have a citron 
of our own.”’ 

She: ‘Amen! May it be so! From your 
mouth into God’s ears!”’ 

‘““Amen, amen,” repeated Leibel in his heart. 
And he pictured to himself his father coming into 
the synagogue, like a respectable householder, with 
his own citron and his own palm-branch. And 
though Moshe-Yankel is only a clerk, still when 
the men walk around the Ark with their palms 
and their citrons, he will follow them with his 
palm and citron. And Leibel’s heart was full of 
joy. When he came to “Cheder,” he at once told 
every one that this year his father would have 
his own palm and citron. But no one believed him. 

‘What do you say to his father?” asked the 
young scamps of one another. ‘Such a man—such 
a beggar amongst beggars desires to have a citron 
of his own. He must imagine it is a lemon, or a 
‘groschen’ apvle.” 

That was what the young scamps said. And 
they gave Leibel a few good smacks and thumps, 
and punches and digs and pushes. And Leibel 
began to believe that his father was a beggar 
amongst beggars. And a beggar must have no 
desires. But how great was his surprise when he 
came home and found “Reb” Henzel sitting at the 
table, in his Napoleonic cap, facing his father. 
In front of them stood a box full of citrons, the 
beautiful perfume of which reached the furthest 
corners of the house. 


122 


The Dead Citron 


The cap which “Reb” Henzel wore was the sort 
of cap worn in the time of Napoleon the First. 
Over there in France, these caps were long out of 
fashion. But in our village there was still one to 
be found—only one, and it belonged to ‘‘Reb”’ 
Henzel. The cap was long and narrow. It had 
a slit and a button in front, and at the back two 
tassels. 1 always wanted these tassels. If the cap 
had fallen into my hands for two minutes—only 
two, the tassels would have been mine. 

“Reb” Henzel had spread out his whole stock- 
in-trade. He took up a citron with his two fingers, 
and gave it to father to examine. 

“Take this citron, ‘Reb’ Moshe-Yankel. You 
will enjoy it.” 

“A good one?” asked my father, examining the 
citron on all sides, as one might examine a diamond. 
His hands trembled with joy. 

‘And what a good one,” replied “Reb” Henzel, 
and the tassels of his cap shook with his laughter. 

Moshe-Yankel played with the citron, smelled 
it, and could not take his eyes off it. He called 
over his wife to him, and showed her, with a 
happy smile, the citron, as if he were showing her 
a precious jewel, a priceless gem, a rare antique, 
or an only child—a dear one. 

Basse-Beila drew near, and put out her hand 
slowly to take hold of the citron. But she did not 
get it. 

“Be careful with your hands. A sniff if you like.” 

Basse-Beila was satisfied with a sniff of the citron. 
I was not even allowed to sniff it. I was not 

123 


Jewish Children 


allowed to go too near it, or even to look at it. 

‘He is here, 400, said my mother. ‘Only let 
him go near it, and he will at once bite the top off 
the citron.” 

“The Lord forbid!” cried my father. 

‘The Lord preserve us!’ echoed “Reb” Henzel. 
And the tassels shook again. He gave father 
some cotton-wool into which he might nest the 
citron. The beautiful perfume spread into every 
corner of the house. ‘The citron was wrapped up 
as carefully as if it had been a diamond, or a precious 
gem. And it was placed in a beautiful round, 
carved, painted and decorated wooden sugar box. 
The sugar was taken out, and the citron was put in 
instead, like a beloved guest. 

‘‘Welcome art thou, ‘Reb’ citron! Into the box 
—into the box!” 

The box was carefully closed, and; placed in the 
glass cupboard. ‘The door was closed over on it, 
and good-bye! 

''1 am afraid the heathen’’—that was meant for 
me—‘‘will open the door, take out the citron, and 
bite its top off,” said my mother. She took me by 
the hand, and drew me away from the cupboard. 

Like a cat that has smelt butter, and jumps down 
from a height for it, straightens her back, goes 
round and round, rubbing herself against every- 
thing, looks into everybody’s eyes, and licks herself 
—in like manner did Leibel, poor thing, go round 
and round the cupboard. 116 gazed in through the 
glass door, smiled at the box containing the citron, 
until his mother saw him, and said to his father that 


124 


The Dead Citron 


the young scamp wanted to get hold of the citron 
to bite off its top. 

“To ‘Cheder, you blackguard! May you never 
be thought of, you scamp!”’ 

Leibel bent his head, lowered his eyes, and went 
off to “Cheder.” 


The few words his mother had said to his father 
about his biting off the top of the citron burned them- 
selves into Leibel’s heart, and ate into his bones like 
a deadly poison. 

The top of the citron buried itself in Leibel’s 
brain. It did not leave his thoughts for a moment. 
It entered his dreams at night, worried him, and 
almost dragged him by the hand. ‘You do not 
recognize me, foolish boy? It is I—the top of 
the citron.” Leibel turned round on the other 
side, groaned, and went to sleep. It worried him 
again. ‘Get up, fool. Go and open the cupboard, 
take out the citron, and bite me off. You will enjoy 
yourself.” 

Leibel got up in the morning, washed his hands, 
and began to say his prayers. 116 took his break- 
fast, and was going off to “Cheder.”’ Passing by, he 
glanced in the direction of the glass cupboard. 
Through the glass door, he saw the box containing 
the citron. And he imagined the box was winking 
athim. “Over here, over here, little boy.” Leibel 
marched straight out of the house. 

One morning, when Leibel got up, he found him- 
self alone in the house. 1115 father had gone off 
to business, his mother had gone to the market. 


125 


Jewish Children 


The servant was busy in the kitchen. ‘‘Every one is 
gone. ‘There isn’t a soul in the house,” thought 
Leibel. Passing by, he again looked inside the 
glass cupboard. 116 saw the sugar box that held 
the citron. It seemed to be beckoning to him. 
“Over here, over here, little boy.” Leibel opened 
the glass door softly and carefully, and took out the 
box—the beautiful, round, carved, decorated wooden 
box, and raised the lid. Before he had time to lift 
out the citron, the fragrance of it filled his nostrils 
—the pungent, heavenly odour. Before he had 
time to turn around, the citron was in his hand, 
and the top of it in his eyes. 

“Do you want to enjoy yourself? Do you want 
to know the taste of Paradise? ‘Take and bite me 
off. Do not be afraid, little fool. No one will 
know of it. Not 2 מ90‎ of Adam will see you. No 
bird will tell on you.” 


You want to know what happened? You want 
to know whether 1 bit the top off the citron, or held 
myself back from doing it? I should like to know 
what you would have done in my place—if you had 
been told ten times not to dare to bite the top off 
the citron? Would you not have wanted to know 
what it tasted like? Would you not also have 
thought of the plan—to bite it off, and stick it on 
again with spittle? You may believe me or not— 
that is your affair—but 1 do not know myself how 
it happened. Before the citron was rightly in my 
hands, the top of it was between my teeth. — 


126 


The Dead Citron 


The day before the Festival, father came home a 
little earlier from his work, to untie the palm-branch. 
He had put it away very carefully in a corner, 
warning Leibel not to attempt to go near it. But 
it was useless warning him. Leibel had his own 
troubles. ‘The top of the citron haunted him. Why 
had he wanted to bite it off? What good had it 
done him to taste it when it was bitter as gall? 
It was for nothing he had spoiled the citron, and 
rendered it unfit for use. That the citron could 
not now be used, Leibel knew very well. Then 
what had he done this for? Why had he spoiled 
this beautiful creation, bitten off its head, and taken 
its life? Why? Why? He dreamt of the citron 
that night. It haunted him, and asked him: ‘‘Why 
have you done this thing to me? Why did you bite 
off my head? 1 am now useless—useless.”’ Liebel 
turned over on the other side, groaned, and fell 
asleep again. But he was again questioned by the 
citron. ‘Murderer, what have you against me? 


What had my head done to you?” 


The first day of the Feast of Tabernacles arrived. 
After a frosty night, the sun rose and covered the 
earth with a delayed warmth, like that of a step- 
mother. That morning Moshe-Yankel got up 
earlier than usual to learn off by heart the Festival 
prayers, reciting them in the beautiful Festival 
melody. ‘That day also Basse-Beila was very busy 
cooking the fish and the other Festival dishes. ‘That 
day also Zalmen the carpenter came to our Taber- 
nacle to make a blessing over the citron and palm 


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before any one else, so that he might be able to 
drink tea with milk and enjoy the Festival. 

‘“Zalmen wants the palm and the citron,’ said 
my mother to my father. 

“Open the cupboard, and take out the box, but 
carefully,” said my father. 

He himself stood on a chair and took down from 
the top shelf the palm, and brought it to the 1 2061- 
nacle to the carpenter. 

‘Here, make the blessing,’ he said. “But be 
careful, in Heaven’s name be careful!” 

Our neighbour Zalmen was a giant of a man— 
may no evil eye harm him! 116 had two hands 
each finger of which might knock down three such 
Leibels as I. 1115 hands were always sticky, and 
his nails red from glue. And when he drew one of 
these nails across a piece of wood, there was a mark 
that might have been made with a sharp piece of 
iron. 

In honour of the Festival, Zalmen had put on a 
clean shirt and a new coat. He had scrubbed his 
hands in the bath, with soap and sand, but had not 
succeeded in making them clean. ‘They were still 
sticky and the nails still red with glue. 

Into these hands fell the dainty citron. It was 
not for nothing Moshe-Yankel was excited when 
Zalmen gave the citron a good squeeze and the 
palm a good shake. 

‘“‘Be careful, be careful,” he cried. ‘‘Now turn 
the citron head downwards, and make the blessing. 
Carefully, carefully. For Heaven’s sake, be care- 
ful!” 

128 


The Dead Citron 


Suddenly Moshe-Yankel threw himself forward, 
and cried out, “Oh!” ‘The cry brought his wife, 
Basse-Beila, running into the Tabernacle. 

‘What is it, Moshe-Yankel? God be with you!” 

“Coarse blackguard! Man of the earth!” he 
shouted at the carpenter, and was ready to kill him. 
“How could you ‘be such a coarse blackguard? 
Such a man of the earth? Isa citron an ax? Or 
is it a saw? Ora bore? A citron is neither an 
ax nor a saw nora bore. You have cut my thifoat 
without a knife. You have spoiled my citron. 
Here is the top of it—here, see! Coarse black- 
guard! Man of the earth!” 

We were all paralysed on the instant. Zalmen 
was like a dead man. He could not understand 
how this misfortune had happened to him. How 
had the top come off the citron? Surely he had 
held it very lightly, only just with the tips of his 
fingers? It was a misfortune—a terrible mis- 
fortune. 

Basse-Beila was pale as death. She wrung her 
hands and moaned. 

‘‘When a man is unfortunate, he may as well 
bury himself alive and fresh and well, right in the 
earth.” 

And Leibel? Leibel did not know whether he 
should dance with joy because the Lord had per- 
formed a miracle for him, released him from all 
the trouble he had got himself into, or whether he 
should cry for his father’s agony and his mother’s 
tears, or whether he should kiss Zalmen’s thick 
hands with the sticky fingers and the red nails, be- 


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cause he was his redeemer, his good angel... . 
Leibel looked at his father’s face and his mother’s 
tears, the carpenter’s hands, and at the citron that 
lay on the table, yellow as wax, without a head, 
without a spark of life, a dead thing, a corpse. 

‘A dead citron,’ said my father, in a broken 
voice. 

‘“‘A dead citron,” repeated my mother, the tears 
gushing from her eyes. 

‘A dead citron,” echoed the carpenter, looking at 
his hands. He seemed to be saying to himself: 
‘“There’s a pair of hands for you! May they, 
wither !”” 

“A dead citron,’ said Leibel, in a joyful voice. 
But he caught himself up, fearing his tones might 
proclaim that he, Leibel, was the murderer, the 
slaughterer of the citron. 


130 


Isshur the Beadle 


When I think of Isshur the beadle, I am reminded 
of Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, and 
other such giants of history. 

Isshur was not a nobody. 116 led the whole con- 
gregation, the whole town by the nose. He had 
the whole town in his hand. He was a man who 
served everybody and commanded everybody; a man 
who was under everybody, but feared nobody. He 
had a cross look, terrifying eyebrows, a beard of 
brass, a powerful fist, and a long stick. Isshur 
was a name to conjure with. 

Who made Isshur what he was? Ask me an 
easier question. ‘There are types of whom it can 
be said they are cast, fixed. They never move out 
of their place. As you see them the first time, so are 
they always. It seems they always were as they 
are, and will ever remain the same. When I was 
a child, I could not tear myself away from Isshur. 
I was always puzzling out the one question—What 
was Isshur like before he was Isshur? ‘That is to 
say, before he got those terrifying eyebrows, and 
the big hooked nose that was always filled with 
snuff, and the big brass beard that started by being 
thick and heavy, and ended up in a few, long strag- 
gling, terrifying hairs. How did he look when he 


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was a child, ran about barefoot, went to “Cheder,”’ 
and was beaten by his teacher? And what was 
Isshur like when his mother was carrying him about 
in her arms, when she suckled him, wiped his nose 
for him, and said: “Isshur, my sweet boy. My 
beautiful boy. May I suffer instead of your little 
bones?” 

These were the questions that puzzled me when 
I was a child, and could not tear myself away from 
Isshur. 

‘‘“Go home, wretches. May the devil take your 
father and mother.” And Isshur would not even 
allow any one to think of him. 

Surely, I was only one boy, yet Isshur called me 
wretches. You must know that Isshur hated to have 
any one staring at him. Isshur hated little children. 
He could not bear them. ‘‘Children,’’ he said, ‘‘are 
naturally bad. ‘They are scamps and contradictory 
creatures. Children are goats that leap into strange 
gardens. Children are dogs that snap at one’s coat- 
tails. Children are pigs that crawl on the table. 
Children should be taught manners. ‘They ought to 
be made to tremble, as with the ague.”’” And we did 
tremble as if we had the ague. 

Why were we afraid, you ask. Well, would you 
not be afraid if you were taken by the ear, dragged 
to the door, and beaten over the neck and shoulders? 

‘“Go home, wretches. May the devil take your 
father and mother.” 

You will tell your mother on him? Well, try it. 
You want to know what will happen? I will tell 
you. You will go home and show your mother your 
132 3 


Isshur the Beadle 


torn ear. Your mother will pounce on your father. 
‘You see how the tyrant has torn the ear of your 
child—your only 90. Your father will take you 
by the hand to the synagogue, and straight over to 
Isshur the beadle, as if to say to him: ‘‘Here, see 
what you have done to my only son. You have al- 
most torn off his ear.’’ And Isshur will reply to my 
father’s unspoken words: ‘‘Go in health with your 
wretches.” You hear? Even an only son is also 
wretches. And what can father do? Push his hat 
on one side, and go home. Mother will ask him: 
“Well?” And he will reply: “I gave it to him, the 
wicked one, the Haman! What more could I do to 
him?” 

It is not at all nice that a father should tell such a 
big lie. But what is one to do when one is under the 
yoke of a beadle? 


One might say that the whole town is under 
Isshur’s yoke. He does what he likes. If he does 
not want to heat the synagogue in the middle of 
winter, you may burst arguing with him. He will 
heed you no more than last year’s snow. If Isshur 
wants prayers to start early in the morning, you will 
be too late whenever you come. 14 Isshur does not 
want you to read the portion of the Law for eight- 
een weeks on end, you may stare at him from today 
till tomorrow, or cough until you burst. 116 will 
neither see nor hear you. 16 is the same with your 
praying-shawl, or your prayer-book, or with your 
citron, or the willow-twigs. Isshur will bring them 
to you when he likes, not when you like. 116 says 


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Jewish Children 


that householders are plentiful as dogs, but there is 
only one beadle—may no evil eye harm him! The 
congregation is so big, one might go mad. 

And Isshur was proud and haughty. He reduced 
every one to the level of the earth. The most 
respectable householder often got it hot from him. 
“Tt is better for you not to start with me,” he said. 
‘“T have no time to talk to you. ‘There are a lot 
of you, and I am only one—may no evil eye harm 
106!' And nobody began with him. They were 
glad that he did not begin with them. 

Naturally, no one would dream of asking Isshur 
what became of the money donated to the synagogue, 
or of the money he got for the candles, and the 
money thrown into the collection boxes. Nor did 
they ask him any other questions relating to the 
management of the synagogue. He was the master 
of the whole concern. And whom was he to give an 
account to? ‘The people were glad if he left them 
alone, and that he did not throw the keys into 
their faces. “Here, keep this place going your- 
selves. Provide it with wood and water, candles 
and matches. The towels must be kept clean. A 
slate has to be put on the roof frequently, and the 
walls and ceiling have to be whitewashed. The 
stands have to be repaired, and the books bought. 
And what about the ‘Chanukalv’ lamp? And what 
of the palm-branch and the citron? And where is 
this, and where is that?” And though every one 
knew that all the things he mentioned not only did 
not mean an outlay of money, but were, on the con- 
trary, a source of income, yet no one dared interfere. 


134 


Isshur the Beadle 


All these belonged to the beadle. They were his 
means of livelihood. ‘The fine salary I get from 
you! QOne’s head might grow hard on it. It’s 
only enough for the water for the porridge,” said 
Isshur. And the people were silent. 

The people were silent, though they knew very 
well that “Reb” Isshur was saving money. ‘They 
knew very well he had plenty of money. It was 
possible he even lent out money on interest, in 
secret, on good securities, of course. He had a 
little house of his own, and a garden, and a cow. 
And he drank a good glassful of brandy every day. 
In the winter he wore the best fur coat. His wife 
always wore good boots without holes. She made 
herself a new cloak not long ago, out of the public 
money. “May she suffer through it for our blood, 
Father in heaven!” 

That’s what the villagers muttered softly through 
their teeth, so that the beadle might not hear them. 
When he approached, they broke off and spoke 
of something else. ‘They blinked their eyes, 
breathed hard, and took from the beadle a pinch 
of snuff with their two fingers. ‘‘Excuse me.”’ 

This “excuse 106 was a nasty “‘excuse me.” It 
was meant to be flattering, to convey the sense of — 
“Excuse me, your snuff is surely good.” And, 
“Excuse me, give me a pinch of snuff, and go in 
peace.”’ 

Isshur understood the compliment, and also the 
hint. He knew the people loved him like sore eyes. 
He knew the people wished to take away his office 
from him as surely as they wished to live. 


135 


Jewish Children © 


But he heeded them as little as Haman heeds the 
“Purim” rattles. 116 had them in his fists, and he 
knew what to do. 


He who wants to find favour with everybody 
will find favour with nobody. And if one has to 
bow down, let it be to the head, not to the feet. 

Isshur understood these two wise sayings. He 
sought the favour of the leaders of the community. 
He did everything they told him to, lay under their 
feet, and flew on any errand on which they sent 
him. And he flattered them until it made one sick. 
There is no need to say anything of what went on 
at the elections. ‘Then Isshur never rested. Who- 
ever has not seen Isshur at such a time has seen 
nothing. Covered with perspiration, his hat pushed 
back on his head, Isshur kneaded the thick mud 
with his high boots, and with his big stick. He 
flew from one committee-man to another, worked, 
plotted, planned, told lies, and carried on intrigues 
and intrigues without an end. 

Isshur was always first-class at carrying on in- 
trigues. 116 could have brought together a wall 
and a wall. He could make mischief in such a way 
that every person in the town should be enraged 
with everybody else, quarrel and abuse his neigh- 
bour, and almost come to blows. And he was in- 
nocent of everything. You must know that Isshur 
had the town very cleverly. He thought within 
himself: “Argue, quarrel, abuse one another, my 


136 


Isshur the Beadle 


friends, and you will forget all about the doings 
of Isshur the beadle.” 

That they should forget his doings was an impor- 
tant matter to Isshur, because, of late, the people 
had begun to talk to him, and to demand from 
him an account of the money he had taken for the 
synagogue. And who had done this? ‘The young 
people—the young wretches he had always hated 
and tortured. 

They say that children become men, and men 
become children. Many generations have grown 
up, become men, and gone hence. The youngsters 
became greybeards. ‘The little wretches became 
self-supporting young men. The young men got 
married and became householders. 126 house- 
holders became old men, and still Isshur was Isshur. 
But all at once there grew up a generation that 
was young, fresh, curious—a generation which was 
called heathens, insolent, fearless, devils, wretches. 
The Lord help and preserve one from them. 

‘‘How does Isshur come to be an overlord? He 
is only a beadle. 116 ought to serve us, and not 
we him. How long more will this old Isshur with 
the long legs and big stick rule over us? The 
account. ‘Where is the account? We must have 
the account.” 

This was the demand of the new generation that 
was made up entirely of heathens, insolent ones, 
fearless ones, devils and wretches. They shouted 
in the yard of the synagogue at the top of their 
voices. Isshur pretended to be deaf, and not to 


137 


Jewish Children 


hear anything. Afterwards, he began to drive 
them out of the yard. 116 extinguished the candles 
in the synagogue, locked the door, and threw out 
the boys. ‘Then he tried to turn against them the 
anger of the householders of the village. He told 
them of all their misdeeds—that they mocked at 
old people, and ridiculed the committee-men. In 
proof of his assertions, he showed the men a piece 
of paper that one of the boys had lost. On it was 
written a little poem. 

Who would have thought it? A foolish poem, 
and yet what excitement it caused in the village— 
what a revolution. Oh! oh! It would have been 
better if Isshur had not found it, or having found 
it, had not shown it to the committee-men. It 
would have been far better for him. It may be 
said that this song was the beginning of Isshur’s end. 
The foolish committee-men, instead of swallowing 
down the poem, and saying no more about it, injured 
themselves by discussing it. ‘They carried it about 
from one to the other so long, until the people 
learnt it off by heart. Some one sang it to an old 
melody. And it spread everywhere. Workmen 
sang it at their work; cooks in their kitchens;, 
young girls sitting on the doorsteps; mothers sang 
their babies to sleep with it. The most foolish 
song has a lot of power in it. When the throat is 
singing the head is thinking. And it thinks so long 
until it arrives at a conclusion. ‘Thoughts whirl 
and whirl and fret one so long, until something: 
results. And when one’s imagination is enkindled, 
a story 15 9016 to grow out of it. 


138 


Isshur the Beadle 


The story that grew out of this song was fine 
and brief. You may listen to it. It may come in 
useful to you some day. 


The heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, devils 
and wretches burrowed so long, and worked so hard 
to overthrow Isshur, that they succeeded in arriv- 
ing at a certain road. Early one morning they 
climbed into the attic of the synagogue. There 
they found the whole treasure—a pile of candles, 
several ''20065 of wax, a score of new “Tallissim,” 
a bundle of prayer-books of different sorts that had 
never been used. It may be that to you these. 
things would not have been of great value, but to 
a beadle they were worth a great deal. This 
treasure was taken down from the attic very 
ceremoniously. 1 will let you imagine the picture 
for yourself. On the one hand, Isshur with the 
big nose, terrifying eyebrows, and the beard of brass 
that started thick and heavy, and finished up with 
a few thin terrifying hairs. On the other hand, 
the young heathens, insolent ones, fearless ones, 
devils and wretches dragging out his treasure. But 
you need not imagine Isshur lost himself. 116 was 
not of the people that lose themselves for the least 
thing. He stood looking on, pretending to be puz- 
zling himself with the question of how these things 
came to be in the attic of the synagogue. 

Early next morning, the following announcement 
was written in chalk on the door of the synagogue :— 

“Memorial candles are sold here at wholesale 
price.’ 


139 


Jewish Children 


Next day there was a different inscription. On 
the third day still another one. Isshur had some- 
thing to do. Every morning he rubbed out with a 
wet rag the inscriptions that covered the whole of 
the door of the synagogue. Every Sabbath morn- 
ing, on their desks the congregants found bundles of 
letters, in which the youngsters accused the beadle 
and his bought-over committee-men of many things. 

Isshur had a hard time of it. He got the com- 
mittee-men to issue a proclamation in big letters, on 
parchment. 

“FJear all! As there have arisen in our midst 
a band of hooligans, scamps, good-for-nothings who 
are making false accusations against the most re- 
spected householders of the village, therefore we, 
the leaders of the community, warn these false 
accusers openly that we most strongly condemn their 
falsehoods, and if we catch any of them, we will 
punish him with all the severities of the law.” 

Of course, the boys at once tore down this proc- 
lamation. A second was hung in its place. The 
boys did not hesitate to hang up a proclamation 
of their own in its stead. And the men found on 
their desks fresh letters of accusation against the 
beadle and the committee-men. In a word, it was 
a period when the people did nothing else but write. 
The committee-men wrote proclamations, and the 
boys, the scamps, wrote letters. This went on until 
the Days of Mourning arrived—the time of the 
elections. And there began a struggle between the 
two factions. On the one side there was Isshur 
and his patrons, the committee-men; and on the 
140 


Isshur the 2621 


other side, the youngsters, the heathens, the scamps, 
and their candidates. Each faction tried to attract 
the most followers by every means in its power. 
One faction tried impassioned words, enflamed 
speeches; the other, soft words, roast ducks, dainties, 
and liberal promises. And just think who won? 
You will never guess. It was we young scamps 
who won. And we selected our own committee-men 
from amongst ourselves—young men with short 
coats, poor men, beggars. It is a shame to tell it, 
but we chose working men—ordinary working men. 


I am afraid you are anxious for my story to 
come to anend. You want to know how long it is 
going to last? Or would you rather 1 told you 
how our new committee-men made up their accounts 
with the old beadle? Do you want to hear how the 
poor old beadle was dragged through the whole 
village by the youngsters, with shouting and 
singing? ‘The boys carried in front of the proces- 
sion the whole treasure of candles, wax, “‘Tallissim” 
and prayer-books which they had found in the attic 
of the synagogue. No, 1 don’t think ‘you will 
expect me to tell you of these happenings. 

Take revenge of our enemy—bathe in his blood, 
so to speak? No! We could not do that. [ 
shall tell you the end in a few words. 

Last New Year I was at home, back again in 
the village of my birth. A lot, a lot of water had 
flown by since the time I have just told you of. 
Still, I found the synagogue on the same spot. And 
it had the same Ark of the Law, the same curtains, 


141 


Jewish Children 


the same reader’s-desk, and the same hanging candle- 
sticks. But the people were different; they were 
greatly changed. It was almost impossible to rec- 
ognize them. The old people of my day were all 
gone. No doubt there were a good many more 
stones and inscriptions in the holy place. The young 
folks had grown grey. 106 committee-men were 
new. The cantor was new. ‘There was a new 
beadle, and new melodies, and new customs. Every- 
thing was new, and new, and new. 

One day—it was “Hoshana Rabba’—the cantor 
sang with his choir, and the people kept beating 
their willow-twigs against the desks in front of 
them. (It seems this custom has remained un- 
changed.) And I noticed from the distance a very 
old man, white-haired, doubled-up, with a big nose, 
and terrifying eyebrows, and a beard that started 
thick and heavy,, but finished up with a few strag- 
gling, terrifying hairs. I was attracted to this old 
man. 1 went over to him, and put out my hand. 

‘Peace be unto you!” 1 said. “I think you are 
‘Reb’ Isshur the beadle?”’ 

“The beadle? What beadle? I am not the 
beadle this long time. I am a bare willow-twig 
this long time. Heh! heh!” 

That is what the old man said to me in a tremu- 
lous voice. And he pointed to the bare willow- 
twigs at his feet. A bitter smile played around his 
grizzled beard that started thick and heavy, but 
finished off with a few straggling, terrifying hairs. 


142 


Boaz the Teacher 


That which I felt on the first day my mother 
took me by the hand to “Cheder’ must be what 2 
little chicken feels, after one has made the sacrificial 
blessing over her and is taking her to be slaughtered. 
The little chicken struggles and flutters her wings. 
She understands nothing, but feels she is not 

going to have a good time, but something different. 
/ . . . It was not for nothing my mother comforted 
me, and told me a good angel would throw me 
down a “groschen’” from the ceiling. It was not 
for nothing she gave me a whole apple and kissed 
me on the brow. It was not for nothing she asked 
Boaz to deal tenderly with me—yjust a little more 
tenderly because ‘‘the child has only recovered from 
the measles.”’ 

So said my mother, pointing to me, as if she 
were placing in Boaz’s hands a rare vessel of crystal 
which, with one touch, would be a vessel no more— 
God forbid! 

My mother went home happy and satisfied, and 
“the child that had only recovered from the measles,” 
remained behind, alone. 116 cried a little, but soon 
wiped his eyes, and was introduced to the holiness 
of the “Torah” and a knowledge of the ways of 
the world. 116 waited for the good angel to throw 
him the “groschen’” from the ceiling. 


143 


ר יי יע ר ר ייר יי 


Jewish Children 


Oh, that good angel—that good angel! It 
would have been better if my mother had never 
mentioned his name, because when Boaz came over, 
took hold of me with his dry, bony hand and thrust 
me into a chair at the table, I was almost faint, 
and 1 raised my head to the ceiling. I got a good 
portion from Boaz for this. He pulled me by the 
ear and shouted: 

“Devil, what are you looking at?” 

Of course, “the child that had only recovered 
from the measles’? began to wail. It was then he 
had his first good taste of the teacher’s floggings. 
''/4 little boy must not look where it is forbidden. 
A little boy must not bleat like a calf.” 


Boaz’s system of teaching was founded on one 
thing—whippings. Why whippings? He explained 
the reason by bringing forward the case of the 
horse. Why does a horse go? Because it is 
afraid. What is it afraid of? Whippings. And 
it is the same with a child. A child must be afraid. 
He must fear God and his teacher, and his father 
and his mother, a sin and a bad thought. And 
in order that a child should be really afraid, he must 
be laid down, in true style, and given a score or so 
lashes. ‘There is nothing better in the world than 
the rod. May the whip live long! 

So says Boaz. He takes the strap slowly in his 
hands, without haste, examines it on all sides as one 
examines a citron. ‘Then he betakes himself to his 
work in good earnest, cheerfully singing a song by 
way of accompaniment. 


144 


Boaz the Teacher 


Wonder of wonders! Boaz never counts the 
strokes, and never makes a mistake. Boaz flogs, 
and is never angry. Boaz is not a bad tempered 
man. He is only angry when a boy will not let 
himself be whipped, tries to tear himself free, or 
kicks out his legs. Then it is different. At such 
times Boaz’s eyes are bloodshot, and he flogs with- 
out counting and without singing his little song. A 
little boy must be still while his teacher flogs him. 
A little boy must have manners, even when he is be- 
ing flogged. 

Boaz is also angry if a boy laughs when he is 
being whipped. (There are children who laugh 
when they are beaten. People say this is a disease.) 
To Boaz laughing is a danger to the soul. Boaz has 
never laughed as long as he is alive. And he hates 
to see any one else laughing. One might easily 
have promised the greatest reward to the person 
who could swear he once saw Boaz laughing. Boaz 
is not a man for laughter. 1115 face is not made for 
it. If Boaz laughed, he would surely look more 
terrible than another mancrying. (There are such 
faces in the world.) And really, what sort of a 
thing is laughter? It is only idlers who laugh, 
empty-headed gools, good-for-nothings, devil-may- 
care sort of people. ‘Those who have to work for 
a living, or carry on their shoulders the burden of a 
knowledge of the Holy Law and of the ways of the 
world, have no time to laugh. Boaz never has 
time. He is either teaching or whipping. That is 
to say, he teaches while he whips, and whips 
while he teaches. It would be hard to divide these 


145 


,יי יי יי יי א 


Jewish Children 


two—to say where teaching ended and whipping 
began. : 

And you must know that Boaz never whipped 
us for nothing. ‘There was always a reason for it. 
It was either for not learning our lessons, for not 
wanting to pray well, for not obeying our fathers 
and mothers, for not looking in, and for not looking 
out, for just looking, for praying too quickly, for 
praying too slowly, for speaking too loudly, for 
speaking too softly, for a torn coat, a lost button, 
a pull or a push, for dirty hands, 2 soiled book, for 
being greedy, for running, for playing—and so on, 
and so on, without an end. 

One might say we were whipped for every sin 
that a human being can commit. We were whipped 
for the sake of the next world as well as this world. 
We were whipped on the eve of every Sabbath, 
every feast and every fast. We were told that if 
we had not earned the whippings yet, we would 
earn them soon, please God. And Boaz gave us 
all the whippings we ought to have had from our 
friends and relatives. ‘They gave the pleasant task 
in to his hands. Then we got whippings of which 
the teacher said: 

“You surely know yourself what they are for.” 
And whippings just for nothing. ‘Let me see how 


a little boy lets himself be whipped.” In a word,. 


it was whippings, rods, leathers, fears and tears. 
‘These prevailed at that time, in our foolish little 
world, without a single solution to the problems 
they brought into being, without a single remedy for 
the evils, without a single ray of hope that we 


146 


Boaz the Teacher 


would ever free ourselves from the fiendish system 
under which we lived. 

And the good angel of whom my mother spoke? 
Where was he—that good angel? 


I must confess there were times when I doubted 
the existence of this good angel. Too early a 
spark of doubt entered my heart. 100 early I 
began to think that perhaps my mother had fooled 
me. 100 early 1 became acquainted with the 
emotion of hatred. 100 early, too early, I began 
to hate my teacher Boaz. _ 

And how could one help hating him? How, I 
ask you, could one help hating a teacher who does 
not allow you to lift your head? ‘That you may not 
do—this you may not say. Don’t stand here. 
Don’t go there. Don’t talk to So-and-so. How 
can one help hating a man who has not in him a 
germ of pity, who rejoices in another’s pains, bathes 
in other’s tears, and washes himself in other’s blood ? 
Can there be a more shameful word than flogging? 
And what can be more disgraceful than to strip 
anybody stark naked and put himinacorner? But 
even this was not enough for Boaz. He required 
you to undress yourself, to pull your own little 
shirt over your own head, and to stretch yourself 
face downwards. ‘The rest Boaz managed. 

And not only did Boaz flog the boys himself, 
but his assistants helped him—his lieutenants, as 
he called them, naturally under his direction, lest 
they might not deliver the full number of strokes. 
‘A: little less learning and a little more flogging,” 


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Jewish Children 


was his rule. He explained the wisdom of his 
system in this way: ‘““Too much learning dulls a 
boy, and a whipping too many does not hurt. 
Because, what a boy learns goes straight to his 
head, and his senses are quickened and his brains 
loaded. With the floggings it is the exact opposite. 
Before the effects of the flogging reach the brain 
the blood is purified, and by this means the brain 
is cleared. Well, do you understand ?” 

And Boaz never ceased from purifying our 
blood, and clearing our brain. And woe unto us! 
We did not believe any more in the good angel 
that looked down upon us from above. We 
realized that it was only a fairy-tale, an invented 
story by which we were fooled into going to Boaz’s 
“Cheder.”’ And we began to sigh and groan because 
of our sufferings under Boaz. And we also began 
to make plans, to talk and argue how to free our- 
selves from our galling slavery. 


In the melancholy moments between daylight 
and darkness, when the fiery red sun is about to 
bid farewell to the cold earth for the night—in these 
melancholy moments, when the happy daylight is 
departing, and on its heels is treading silently 
the still night, with its lonely secrets—in these 
melancholy moments, when the shadows are 
climbing on the walls growing broader and longer 
—in these melancholy moments between the after- 
noon and the evening prayers, when the teacher 
is at the synagogue, and his wife is milking the 
goat or washing the crockery, or making the 
148 


Boaz the Teacher 


“Borsht’—then we youngsters came together at 
“Cheder,” beside the stove. We sat on the floor, 
our legs curled up under us, like innocent lambs. 
And there in the evening darkness, we talked of our 
terrible Titus, our angel of death, Boaz. 6 
bigger boys, who had been at “Cheder’’ some time, 
told us the most awful tales of Boaz. They swore 
by all the oaths they could think of that Boaz had 
flogged more than one boy to death, that he had 
already driven three women into their graves, and 
that he had buried his one and only son. We 
heard such wild tales that our hair stood on end. 
The older boys talked, and the younger listened— 
listened with all their senses on the alert. Black eyes 
gleamed in the darkness. Young hearts palpitated. 
And we decided that Boaz had no soul. 116 was a 
man without a soul. And such a man is compared 
to an animal, to an evil spirit that it is a righteous act 
to get rid of. ‘Thousands of plans, foolish, childish 
plans, were formed in our childish brains. We 
hoped to rid ourselves of our angel of death, as we 
called Boaz. Foolish children! ‘These foolish 
plans buried themselves deep in each little heart that 
cried out to the Lord to perform a miracle. We 
asked that either the books should be burnt, or the 
strap he whipped us with taken to the devil, or—or 
. . . No one wished to speak of the last alternative. 
They were afraid to bring it to their lips. And 
the evil spirit worked in their hearts. ‘The young 
fancies were enkindled, and the boys were carried 
away by golden dreams. They dreamed of free- 
dom, of running down hill, of wading barefoot in 


149 


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Jewish Children 


the river, playing horses, jumping over the logs. 
They were good, sweet, foolish dreams that were 
not destined to be realized. There was heard a 
familiar cough, a familiar footfall. And our hearts 
were frozen. All our limbs were paralysed, 
deadened. We sat down at the table and started 
our lessons with as much enthusiasm as if we were 
starting for the gallows. We were reading aloud, 
but still our lips muttered: ‘Father in Heaven, will 
there never come an end to this tyrant, this Pharaoh, 
this Haman, this Gog-Magog? Or will there ever 
come a time when we shall be rid of this hard, hope- 
less, dark tyranny? No, never, never!” 

That is the conclusion we arrived at, poor in- 
nocent, foolish children! 


“Children, do you want to hear of a good plan 
that will rid us of our Gog-Magog?”’ 

That was what one of the boys asked us on one 
of those melancholy moments already described. 
His name was Velvel Leib Aryas. He was a 
young heathen. When he was speaking his eyes 
gleamed in the darkness like those of a wolf. And 
the whole school of boys crowded around Velvel 
to hear the plan by which we might get rid of 
our Gog-Magog. Velvel began his explanation by 
giving us a lecture—how impossible it was to stand 
Boaz any longer, how the Ashmodai was bathing 
in our blood, how he regarded us as dogs—worse 
than dogs, because when a dog is beaten with a 
stick it may, at any rate, howl. And we may not 
150 


Boaz the Teacher 


do that either. And 90 on, and so on. After this 
Velvel said to us: 

“Listen, children, to what I will ask you. I | 
am going to ask you something.” 

‘Ask it,” we all cried in one voice. 

‘What is the law in a case where, for example, 
one of us suddenly becomes 111?" 

“Tt is not good,” we replied. 

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean something 
else. 1 mean, if one of us is ill does he go to 
‘Cheder,’ or does he stay at home?” 

“Of course he stays at home,” we all answered 
together. 

“Well, what is the law if two of us get ill?” 

“Two remain at home.” 

“Well, and if three get 11?" Velvel went on 
asking us, and we went on answering him. 

“Three stay at home.” 

“What would happen if, for example, we all 
took ill?” 

“We should all stay at home.” 

‘Then let a sickness come upon us all,” he cried 
joyfully. We replied angrily: 

“The Lord forbid! Are you mad, or have you 
lost your reason?” 

“IT am not mad, and I have not lost my reason. 
Only you are fools, yes. Do I mean that we are 
to be really ill? I mean that we are to pretend 
to be ill, so that we shall not have to go to ‘Cheder.’ 
Do you understand me now?” 

When Velvel had explained his plan to us, we 
began to understand it, and to like it. And we 


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began to ask ourselves what sort of an illness we 
should suffer from. One suggested toothache, 
another headache, a third stomach-ache, a fourth 
worms. But we decided that it was not going to be 
toothache, nor headache, nor stomach-ache, nor 
worms. What then? We must all together com- 
plain of pains in our feet, because the doctor could 
decide whether we really suffered from any of the 
other illnesses or not. But if we told him we had 
pains in our feet, and were unable to move them, 
he could do nothing. 

‘‘Remember, children, you are not to get out of 
bed tomorrow morning. And so that we may all 
be certain that not one of us will come to ‘Cheder’ to- 
morrow, let us promise.one another, take an oath.” 

So said our comrade Velvel. And we gave each 
other our promise, and took an oath that we would 
not be at “Cheder’ next morning. We went 
home from “Cheder’ that evening lively, joyful, 
and singing. We felt like giants who knew how 
to overcome the enemy and win the battle. 


152 


The Spinning-Top 


More than any of the boys at “Cheder,’ more 
than any boy of the town, and more than any per- 
son in the world, I loved my friend, Benny 
“Polkovoi.’ The feeling I had for him was a 
peculiar combination of love, devotion, and fear. [ 
loved him because he was handsomer, cleverer and 
smarter than any other boy. He was kind and 
faithful to me. He took my part, fought for me, 
and pulled the ears of those boys who annoyed me. 

And I was afraid of him because he was big and 
quarrelsome. 116 could beat whom he liked, and 
when he liked. 116 was the biggest, oldest, and 
wealthiest boy in the “Cheder.” His father, Mayer 
“Polkovoi,” though he was only a regimental tailor, 
was nevertheless a rich man, and played an im- 
portant part in public affairs. He had a fine house, 
a seat in the synagogue beside the ark. At the 
Passover, his ‘“Matzo’ was baked first. At the 
feast of Tabernacles his citron was the best. 
On the Sabbath he always had a poor man to meals. 
He gave away large sums of money in charity. 
And he himself went to the house of another to 
lend him money as a favour. 116 engaged the best 
teachers for his chldren. In a word, Mayer 
“Polkovov’ tried to refine himself—to be a man 


153 


Jewish Children | 


amongst men. He wanted to get his name inscribed 
in the books of the best society, but did not 
succeed. Jn our town, Mazapevka, it was not easy 
to get into the best society. We did not forget 
readily a man’s antecedents. A tailor may try to 
refine himself for twenty years in succession, but 
he will still remain a tailor to us. 1 do not think 
there is a soap in the world that will wash out this 
stain. How much do you think Mayer ‘“Polkovot” 
would have given to have us blot out the name be- 
stowed upon him, ‘‘Polkovoi’’? His misfortune 
was that his family was a thousand times worse than 
his name. Just imagine! In his passport he was 
called Mayor Mofsovitch Heifer. 

It is a remarkable thing. May Mayer’s great- 
great-grandfather have a bright Paradise! He also 
must have been a tailor. When it came to giving 
himself a family name, he could not find a better 
one than Heifer. He might have called himself 
Thimble, Lining, Buttonhole, Bigpatch, Longfigure. 
‘These are not family names either, it is true, but 
they are in some way connected with tailoring. 
But Heifer? What did he like in the name of 
Heifer? You may ask why not Goat? Are there 
not people in the world called Goat? You may say 
what you like, Heifer and Goat are equally nice. 
Still, they are not the same. A Heifer is not a 
Goat. 

iBut we will return to my friend Benny. 


Benny was a nice boy, with yellow tousled hair, 
white puffed-out cheeks, scattered teeth, and peculiar 


154 


The Spinning Top 
red, bulging, fishy eyes. These red, fishy eyes were 
always smiling and roguish. 116 had a turned-up 
nose. His whole face had an expression of im- 
pudence. Nevertheless, I liked his face, and we 
became friends the first hour we met. 

We met for the first time at “Cheder,’ at the 
‘teachers’ table. When my mother took me to 
“Cheder,”’ the teacher was sitting at his table with 
the boys, teaching them the book 04 Genesis. He 
was a man with thick eyebrows and a pointed cap. 
He made no fuss of me. 116 asked me no questions, 
neither did he take my measurements, but said to 
me— 

“Get over there, on that bench, between those 
two boys.” 

I got on the bench, between the boys, and was 
already a pupil. There was no talk between my 
mother and the teacher. They had made all 
arrangements beforehand. 

“Remember to learn as you ought,” said my 
mother from the doorway. She turned to look at 
me again, lovingly, joyfully. I understood her 
look very well.. She was pleased that I was sitting 
with nice children, and learning the “Torah.”’ And 
she was pained because she had to part with me. 

1 must confess I felt much happier than my 
mother. I was amongst a crowd of new friends 
—may no evil eye harm them! They looked at 
me, and I looked at them. But the teacher did 
not let us idle for long. He shook himself, and 
shouted aloud the lesson we had to repeat after 
him at the top of our voices. 


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Jewish Children 


“Now the serpent was more subtil than any 
beast of the field.” 

Boys who sit so close together, though they shake 
and shout aloud, cannot help getting to know one 
another, or exchange a few words. And so it was. 

Benny “Polkovoi,” who sat crushing me, pinched 
my leg, and looked into my eyes. He went on 
shaking himself, and shouting out the lesson with 
the teacher and the other boys. But he threw 
his own words into the middle of the sentence we 
were translating. 

“And Adam knew (here are buttons for you) 
Eve his wife. (Give me a locust-bean and I will 
give you a pull of my cigarette.)”’ 

I felt a warm hand in mine, and I had some 
smooth buttons. I cdnfess I did not want the 
buttons, and I had no locust-beans, neither did I 
smoke cigarettes. But I liked the idea of the thing. 
And I replied in the same tones in which the lesson 
was being recited: 

‘And she conceived and bare Cain. (Who told 
you I have locust-beans?)” 

That is how we conversed the whole time, until 
the teacher suspected that though I shook myself 
to and fro, my mind was far from the lesson. 
He suddenly put me through an examination. 

‘Listen, you, whatever your name is, you surely 
know whose son Cain was, and the name of his 
brother?” 

This question was as strange to me as if he had 
asked me when there would be a fair in the sky, or 
how to make cream-cheese from snow, so that they 


156 


The Spinning Top 
should not melt. In reality my mind was elsewhere, 
I don’t know where. 

‘‘Why do you look at me so?” asked the teacher. 
“Don’t you hear me? I want you to tell me the 
name of the first man, and the story of Cain and his 
brother Abel.” 

The boys were smiling, smothering their laughter. 
I did not know why. 

‘Fool, say you do not know, because we have not 
learnt 16 whispered Benny in my ear, digging me 
with his elbow. 1 repeated his words, like a parrot. 
And the “Cheder’ was filled with loud laughter. 

‘What are they laughing at?” I asked myself. 
I looked at them, and at the teacher. All were roll- 
ing with laughter. And, at that moment, I counted 
the buttons from one hand into the other. There 
were exactly half a dozen. 

“Well, little boy, show me your hands. What 
are you doing with them?” And the teacher bent 
down and looked under the table. 

You are clever boys, and you will understand 
yourselves what I had from the teacher, for the 
buttons, on my first day at “Cheder.” 


Whippings heal up; shame is forgotten. Benny 
and I became good friends. We were one soul. 
This is how it came about :— 

Next morning 1 arrived at “Cheder’ with my 
Bible in one hand and my dinner in the other. The 
boys were excited, jolly. Why? ‘The teacher was 
not there. What had happened? He had gone off 
to a Circumcision with his wife. That is to say, 


157 


Jewish Children 


not with her, God forbid! A teacher never walks 
with his wife. The teacher walks before, and his 
wife after him. 

“Tet us make a bet,” cried a boy with a blue nose. 
His name was Hosea Hessel. 

“How much shall we bet?” asked another boy, 
Koppel Bunnas. 116 had a torn sleeve out of which 
peeped the point of a dirty elbow. 

“A quarter of the locust-beans.” 

“Let it be a quarter of the locust-beans. What 
for? ‘Let us hear.” 

“T say he will not stand more than twenty-five.” 

“And I say thirty-six.” 

‘Thirty-six. We shall soon see. Boys, take 
hold of him.” 

This was the order of Hosea Hessel, of the 
blue nose. And several boys took hold of me, 
all together, turned me over on the bench, face 
upwards. ‘Two sat on my legs, two on my arms, 
and one held my head, so that I should not be able 
to wriggle. And another placed his left fore- 
finger and thumb at my nose. (It seemed he was 
left-handed.) He curled up his finger and thumb, 
closed his eye, and began to fillip me on the nose. 
And how, do you think? Each time I saw my 
father in the other world’ Murderers, slaugh- 
terers! What had they against my nose? What 
had it done to them? Whom had it bothered? 
What had they seen on it—a nose like all noses. 

“Boys, count,” commanded Hosea Hessel. 
“One, two, three—” 

But suddenly .. . 

158 


The Spinning Top 

Nearly always, since ever the world began, when 
a misfortune happens to a man—when robbers sur- 
round him in 2 wood, bind his hands, shiarpen 
their knives, tell him to say his prayers, and are 
about to finish him off, there comes a woodman with 
a bell. The robbers run away, and the man lifts 
his hands on high and praises the Lord for his de- 
liverance. 

It was just like that with me and my nose. I 
don’t remember whether it was at the fifth or 
sixth blow that the door opened, and Benny 
“Polkovoi’ came in. ‘The boys freed me at once, 
and remained standing like blocks of wood. Benny 
took them in hand, one by one. 116 caught each 
boy by the ear, twisted it round, and said: 

“Well, now you will know what it means to 
meddle with a widow’s boy.” 

From that day the boys did not touch either me 
or my nose. They were afraid to begin with the 
widow’s boy whom Benny had taken under his 
wing, into his guardianship, under his protection. 


‘The widow’s boy’’—I had no other name at 
“Cheder.” ‘This was because my mother was a 
widow. She supported herself by her own work. 
She had a little shop in which were, for the most 
part, so far as I can remember, chalk and locust- 
beans—the two things that sell best in Mazapevka. 
Chalk is wanted for white-washing the houses, and 
locust-beans are a luxury. ‘They are sweet, and 
they are light in weight, and they are cheap. School- 
boys spend on them all the money they get for 


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Jewish Children 


breakfast and dinner. And the shopkeepers: make 
a good profit out of them. I could never under- 
stand why my mother was always complaining that 
she could hardly make enough to pay the rent and 
my school-fees. Why school-fees? What about 
the other things a human being needs, food and 
clothes and boots, for example? She thought 
of nothing but the school-fees. ‘‘When the Lord 
punished me,” she wailed, ‘‘and took my husband 
from me—and such a husband!—and left me all 
alone, I want my son to be a scholar, at any 1266. 
What do you say to that? Do you think she did 
not come frequently to the “Cheder” to find out how 
I was getting on? I say nothing of the prayers 
she took good care I should recite every morning. 
She was always lecturing me to be even half as 
good as my father—peace be unto him! And 
whenever she looked at me, she said I was exactly 
like him—may I have longer years than he! And 
her eyes grew moist. Her face grew curiously 
careworn, and had a mournful expression. 

I hope he will forgive me, I mean my father, 
from the other world, but I could not understand 
what sort of a man he had been. From what my 
mother told of him, he was always either praying 
or studying. Had he never been drawn, like me, 
out into the open, on summer mornings, when the 
sun was not burning yet, but was just beginning to 
show in the sky, marching rapidly onwards, a fiery 
angel, in a fiery chariot, drawn by fiery horses, into 
whose brilliant, burning, guinea-gold faces it was 
impossible to look? I ask you what taste have 
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The Spinning Top 
the week-day prayers on such a morning? What 
sort of a pleasure is it to sit and read in a 3687 
room, when the golden sun is burning, and the air 
is hot as an iron frying-pan? At such a time, you 
are tempted to run down the hill, to the river—the 
beautiful river that is covered with a green slime. 
A peculiar odour, as of a warm bath, comes from 
the distance. You want to undress and jump into 
the warm water. Under the trees it is cool and the 
mud is soft and slippery. And the curious insects 
that live at the bottom of the river whirl around 
and about before your eyes. And curious, long- 
legged flies slip and slide on the surface of the water. 
At such a time one desires to swim over to the other 
side—over to where the green flags grow, their 
yellow and white stalks shimmering in the sun. A 
green, fresh fern looks up at you, and you go after 
it, plash-plash into the water, hands down, and 
feet up, so that people might think you were swim- 
ming. 1 ask you again, what pleasure is it to sit in 
a little room on a summer’s evening, when the great 
dome of the sky is dropping over the other side of the 
town, lighting up the spire of the church, the shingle 
roofs of the baths, and the big windows of the 
synagogue. And on the other side of the town, 
on the common, the goats are bleating, and the 
lambs are frisking, the dust rising to the heavens, 
the frogs croaking. ‘There is a tearing and a shriek- 
ing and a tumult as at a regular fair. Who thinks 
of praying at such a time? But if you talk to my 
mother, she will tell you that her husband—peace 
be unto him!—did not succumb to temptations. . 


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He was a different sort of a man. What sort of 
a man he was I do not know—asking his pardon. 
I only know that my mother annoys me very much. 
She reminds me every minute that I had a father; 
‘and throws it into my teeth that she has to pay my 
school-fees for me. For this she asks only two 
things of me—that I should learn diligently, and 
say my prayers a 


It adil not He said ofa? the widow’s boy did 
not learn well. 116 was not in any way behind 
his comrades. But I cannot guarantee that he 
said his prayers willingly. All children are alike. 
And he was as mischievous as any other boy. 6 
like the rest, was fond of running away and play- 
ing, though there is not much to be said of the 
play of Jewish children. ‘They tie a paper bag 
to a cat’s tail so that she may run through the 
house like mad, smashing everything in her way. 
They lock the women’s portion of the synagogue 
from the outside on Friday nights, so that the 
women may have to be rescued. ‘They nail the 
teacher’s shoes to the floor, or seal his beard to the 
table with wax when he is asleep. But oh, how 
many thrashings, do they get when their tricks are 
found out! It may be gathered that everything 
must have an originator, a commander, a head, a 
leader who shows the way. 

Our leader, our commander was Benny “Pol- 
kovoi.” From him all things originated; and on 
our heads were the consequences. Benny, of the 
fat face and red, fishy eyes, always managed to 


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escape scot free from the scrapes. He was always 
innocent as a dove. Whatever tricks or mischief 
we did, we always got the idea from Benny. Who 
taught us to smoke cigarettes in secret, letting the 
smoke out through our nostrils? Benny. Who 
told us to slide on the ice, in winter, with the 
peasant-boys? Benny. Who taught us to gamble 
with buttons—to play ‘‘odd or even,’ and lose 
our breakfasts and dinners? Benny. He was up 
to every trick, and taught us them all. He won 
our last “groschens’” from us. And when it came 
to anything, Benny had disappeared. Playing was 
to us the finest thing in the world. And for play- 
ing we got the severest thrashings from our teacher. 
He said he would tear out of us the desire to play. 

“Play in my house? You will play with the 
Angel of Death,’ said the teacher. And he used 
to empty our pockets of everything, and thrash 
us most liberally. 

But there was one week of the year when we 
were allowed to play. Why do I say allowed? 
It was a righteous thing to play then. 

And that week was the week of “Chanukah.” 
And we played with spinning-tops. 


It is true that the games of cards—bridge and 
whist, for example—which are played at “Chan- 
ukah”’ nowadays have more sense in them than the 
old game of spinning-tops. But when the play is 
for money, it makes no difference what it is. I 
once saw two peasant-boys beating one another’s 
heads against the wall. When I asked them why 


103 


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they were doing this, if they were out of their 
minds, they told me to go my road. ‘They were 
playing a game, for money, which of them would 
06 tired the soonest of having his head banged 
on the wall. 

The game of spinning-tops that have four cor- 
ners, each marked with a letter of the alphabet, and 
are like dice, is very exciting. One can lose one’s 
soul playing it. It is not so much the loss of the 
money as the annoyance of losing. Why should 
the other win? Why should the top fall on the 
letter G for him, and on the N for you? I suppose 
you know what the four letters stand for? N 
means no use. H means half. B means bad. 
And G means good. The top is a sort of lottery. 
Whoever is fortunate wins. ‘Take, for example, 
Benny “Polkovoi.” No matter how often he spins 
the top, it always falls on the letter G. 

The boys said it was curious how Benny won. 
They kept putting down their money. 116 took on 
their bets. What did he care? He was a rich 
boy. 

“G again. It’s curious,” they cried, and again 
opened their purses and staked their money. Benny 
whirled the top. It spun round and round, and 
wobbled from side to side, like a drunkard, and 
fell down. 

“G,” said Benny. 

“G, G. Again G. It’s extraordinary,” said 
the boys, scratching their heads and again opening 
their purses. 

The game grew more exciting. The players 


164 


9 


The Spinning Top 
grew hot, staked their money, crushed one another, 
and dug one another in the ribs to get nearer the 
table, and called each other peculiar names— 
“Black Tom-cat! Creased Cap! Split Coat!” 
and the like. ‘They did not see the teacher stand- 
ing behind them, in his woollen cap and coat, and 
carrying his “Tallis” and “Tephilin’ under his arm. 
He was going to the synagogue to say his prayers, 
and seeing the crowd of excited boys, he drew near 
to watch the play. This day he does not interfere. 
It is “Chanukah.” We are free for eight days on 
end, and may play as much as we like. But we must 
not fight, nor pull one another by the nose. The 
teacher’s wife took her sickly child in her arms, 
and stood at her husband’s shoulder, watching the 
boys risk their money, and how Benny took on all 
the bets. Benny was excited, burning, aflame, 
ablaze. He twirled the top. It spun round and 
round, wobbled and fell down. 

“G all over again. It’s a regular pantomime.” 

Benny showed us his smartness and his quick- 
wittedness so long, until our pockets were empty. 
He thrust his hands in his pockets, as if challenging 
---פט‎ 0061 who wants more?” 

We all went home. We carried away with us 
the heartache and the shame of our losses. When 
we got home, we had to tell lies to account for the 
loss of the money we had been given in honour 
of “Chanukah.” One boy confessed he had spent 
his on locust-beans. Another said the money had 
been stolen out of his pocket the previous night. 
A third came home crying. He said he had bought 


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himself a pocket-knife. Well, why was he crying? 
He had lost the knife on his way home. 

I told my mother a fine story—a regular “Arabian 
Nights” tale, and got out of her a second “Chanu- 
kah” present of ten “groschens.” I ran off with 
them to Benny, played for five minutes, lost to him, 
and flew back home, and told my mother another 
tale. In a word, brains were at work and heads 
were busy inventing lies. Lies flew about 1166 4 
in the wind. And all our “Chanukah” money went 
into Benny’s pockets, and was lost to us for ever. 

One of the boys became so absorbed in the play 
that he was not satisfied to lose only his “Chanukah” 
money, but went on gambling through the whole 
eight days of the festival. 

And that boy was no other than myself, “the 
widow’s son.” 


You must not ask where the widow’s boy got the 
money to play with. The great gamblers of the 
world who have lost and won fortunes, estates and 
inheritances—they will know and understand. Woe 
is me! May the hour never be known on which 
the evil spirit of gambling takes hold of one! 
There is nothing too hard for him. He breaks into 
houses, gets» through iron walls, and does the most 
terrible thing imaginable. It’s a name to conjure 
with—the spirit of gambling. 

First of all, I began to make money by selling 
everything I possessed, one thing after the other, 
my pocket-knife, my purse, and all my buttons. I 
had a box that opened and closed, and some wheels 


166 


The Spinning Top 
of an old clock—good brass wheels that shone like 
the sun when they were polished. I sold them all at 
any price, flew off, and lost all my money to Benny. 
I always left him with a heart full of wounds and 
the bitterest annoyance, and greatly excited. I was 
not angry with Benny. God forbid! What had 
I against him? How was he to blame if he always 
won at play? If the top fell on the G for me, he 
said, I should win. If it falls on the G for him, 
then he wins. And he is quite right. No, I am 
only sorry for myself, for having run through so 
much money—my mother’s hard-earned “groschens,”’ 
and for having made away with all my things. I 
was left almost naked. 1 even sold my little prayer- 
book. O that prayer-book, that prayer-book! 
When 1 think of it, my heart aches, and my face 
burns with shame. It was an ornament, not a book. 
My mother bought it of Pethachiah the pedlar, on 
the anniversary of my father’s death. And it was a 
book of books—a good one, a real good one, thick, 
and full of everything. It had every prayer one 
could mention, the ‘Song of Songs,” the Ethics of 
the Fathers, and the Psalms, and the “Haggadah,”’ 
and all the prayers of the whole year round. ‘Then 
the print and the binding, and the gold lettering. It 
was full of everything, I tell you. Each time 
Pethachiah the pedlar came round with his cut mous- 
tache that made his careworn face appear as if it was 
smiling—each time he came round and opened his 
pack outside the synagogue door, I could not take 
my eyes off that prayer-book. __ | 

“What would you say, little boy?” asked 
167 


Jewish Children 


Pethachiah, as if he did not know that I had my eyes 
on the prayer-book, and had had it in my hands 
seventeen times, each time asking the price of it. 

“Nothing,” I replied. ‘Just so!’ And I left 
him, so as not to be tempted. 

“Ah, mother, you should see the fine thing 
Pethachiah the pedlar has.” 

“What sort of a thing?” asked my mother. 

‘A little prayer-book. If I had such a prayer- 
book, I would—I don’t know myself what I would 
40." 

“Hlaven’t you got a prayer-book? And where 
is your father’s prayer-book ?”’ 

“You can’t compare them. This is an ornament, 
and my book is only a book.” 

‘An ornament?’ repeated my mother. “Are 
there then more prayers in an ornamental א‎ 
or do the prayers sound better?” 

Well, how can you explain an ornament to your 
mother—a really fine book with red covers, and 
blue edges, and a green back? 

‘‘Come,” said my mother to me, one evening, 
taking me by the hand. ‘Come with me to the 
synagogue. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of your 
father’s death. We will bring candles to be lit 
for him, and at the same time we will see what sort 
of a prayer-book it is that Pethachiah 25. 

I knew beforehand that on the anniversary of 
the death of my father, I could get from my mother 
anything I asked for, even to the little plate 
from heaven, as the saying is. And my heart beat 
with joy. 

168 


The Spinning Top 

When we got to the synagogue, we found 
Pethachiah with his pack still unopened. You 
must know Pethachiah was a man who never 
hurried. He knew very well he was the only man 
at the fair. His customers would never leave 
him. Before he opened his pack and spread out his 
goods, it took a year. I trembled, I shook. I 
could hardly stand on my feet. And he did not 
care. It was as if we were not talking to him at all. 

‘Let me see what sort of a prayer-book it is 
you have,” said my mother. 

Pethachiah had plenty of time. The river was 
not on fire. Slowly, without haste, he opened his 
pack, and spread out his wares—big Bibles, little 
prayer-books for men, and for women, big Psalm 
books and little, and books for all possible occasions, 
without an end. ‘Then there were books of tales 
from the “Talmud,” tales of the ‘“Bal-shem-tov,” 
books of sermons, and books of devotion. I 
imagined he would never run short. 116 was a well, 
a fountain. At last he came to the little books, 
and handed out the one I wanted. 

“Is this all?” asked my mother. ‘‘Such a little 
one,” 

“This little one is dearer than a big one,” 
answered Pethachiah. 

“And how much do you want for the little squir- 
rel?—God forgive me for calling it by that 
name.” 

“You call a prayer-book a squirrel?” asked 
Pethachiah. He took the book slowly out of her 
hand; and my heart was torn. 


169 


Jewish Children. 


“Well, say. How much is it?” asked my 
mother. But Pethachiah had plenty of time. He 
answered her in a sing-song: 

“How much is the little prayer-book? It will 
cost you—it will cost you—I am afraid it is not for 
your purse.’ 

My mother cursed her enemies, that ther might 
have black, hideous dreams, and asked him to say 
how much. 

Pethachiah stated the price. My mother did 
not answer him. She turned towards the door, 
took my hand, and said to me: 

‘Come, let us go. We have nothing to do here. 
Don’t you know that ‘Reb’ Pethachiah is a man 
who charges famine prices?” 

I followed my mother to the door. And though 
my heart was heavy, I still hoped the Lord would 
pity us, and Pethachiah would call us back. But 
Pethachiah was not that sort of a man. He knew 
we should turn back of our own accord. And so 
it was. My mother turned round, and asked him 
to talk like a man. Pethachiah did not stir. He 
looked at the ceiling. And his pale faceshone. We 
went off, and returned once again. 

‘A curious Jew, Pethachiah,” said my mother 
to me afterwards. ‘‘May my enemies have the 
plague if I would have bought the prayer-book 
from him. It is at a famine price. As I live, it 
is a sin. The money could have gone for your 
school-fees. But it’s useless. For the sake of to- 
morrow, the anniversary of your father’s death— 
peace be unto him!—TI have bought you the prayer- 
170 


The Spinning Top 
book, as a favour. And now, my son, you must 
do me a favour in return. Promise me that you 
will say your prayers faithfully every day.” 

Whether I really prayed as faithfully as I had 
promised, or not, I will not tell you. But I loved 
the little book as my life. You may understand 
that I slept with it, though, as you know, it is 
forbidden. The whole ‘“‘Cheder’’ envied me the 
little book. I minded it as if it were the apple of 
my eye. And now, this “Chanukah’—woe unto 
me !---1 carried it off with my own hands to Moshe 
the carpenter’s boy, who had long had his eye on 
it. And I had to beg of him, for an hour on end, 
before he bought it. I almost gave it away for 
nothing—the little prayer-book. My heart faints 
and my face burns with shame. Sold! And to 
what end? For whose sake? For Benny’s sake, 
that he might win off me another few ‘‘kopeks.” 
But how is Benny to blame if he wins at play? 

“That’s what a spinning-top is for,” explained 
Benny, putting into his purse my last few “gros- 
chens.” “If things went with you as they are going 
with me, then you would be winning. But I am 
lucky, and I win.” 

And Benny’s cheeks glowed. It is bright and 
warm in the house. A silver “Chanukah’’ lamp is 
burning the best oil. Everything is fine. From 
the kitchen comes a delicious odour of freshly melt- 
ed goose-fat. 

‘We are having fritters tonight,” Benny told 
me in the doorway. My heart was weak with 
hunger. 1 flew home in my torn sheep-skin. My 


11 


Jewish Children 


mother had come in from her shop. Her hands 
were red and swollen with the cold. She was 
frozen through and through, and was warming 
herself at the stove. Seeing me, her face lit up 
with pleasure. 

“From the synagogue?” she asked. 

“From the synagogue,” was my lying answer. 

‘Ffave you said the evening prayer?” 

‘“T have said the evening prayer,’ was my 
second lie to her. 

‘Warm yourself, my son. You will say the 
blessing over the ‘Chanukah’ lights. It is the last 
night of ‘Chanukah’ tonight, thank God!” 


If a man had only troubles to bear, without a 
scrap of pleasure, he would never get over them, 
but would surely take his own life. I am referring 
to my mother, the widow, poor thing, who worked 
day and night, froze, never had enough to eat, 
and never slept enough for my sake. Why should 
she not have a little pleasure too? Every person 
puts his own meaning into the word “pleasure.” 
To my mother there was no greater pleasure in 
the world than hearing me recite the blessings on 
Sabbaths and Festivals. At the Passover I carried 
out the ‘Seder’ for her, and at “Chanukah” I 
made the blessing over the lights. Was the blessing 
over wine or beer? 1126 we for the Passover frit- 
ters or fresh “matzo”? What were the “Chanu- 
kah” lights—a silver, eight-branched lamp with 
olive oil, or candles stuck in pieces of potato? Be- 
lieve me, the pleasure has nothing to do with wine 


172 


The Spinning Top 


or fritters, or a silver lamp. ‘The main thing is the 
blessing itself. To see my mother’s face when | 
was praying, how it shone and glowed with pleasure 
was enough. סא‎ words are necessary, no detailed 
description, to prove that this was unalloyed hap- 
piness to her, real pleasure. I bent over the pota- 
toes, and recited the blessing in a sing-song voice. 
She repeated the blessing after me, word for word, 
in the same sing-song. She looked into my eyes, 
and moved her lips. I knew she was thinking at 
the time: 14 is he—he in every detail. May the 
child have longer years!’? And I felt I deserved 
to be cut to pieces like the potatoes. Surely, I had 
deceived my mother, and for such a base cause. 
I had betrayed her from head to foot. 

The candles in the potatoes—my “Chanukah” 
lights—flickered and flickered until they went out. 
And my mother said to me: 

“Wash your hands. We are having potatoes 
and goose-fat for supper. In honour of ‘Chanu- 
kah, I bought a little measure of goose-fat—fresh, 
beautiful fat.” 

I washed myself with pleasure, and we sat down 
to supper. 

“Tt is a custom amongst some people to have 
fritters for supper on the last night of “Chanukah,” 
said my mother, sighing. And there arose to my 
mind Benny’s fritters, and Benny’s spinning-top 
that had cost me all I possessed in the world. I 
had a sharp pain at my heart. More than all, I 
regretted the little prayer-book. But, of what use 
were regrets? It was all over and done with. 


173 


Jewish Children 


Even in my sleep I had uneasy thoughts. I 
heard my mother’s groans. I heard her bed creak- 
ing, and I imagined that it was my mother groan- 
ing. Out of doors, the wind was blowing, rat- 
tling the windows, tearing at the roof, whistling 
down the chimney, sighing loudly. A cricket had 
come to our house a long time before. It was 
now chirping from the wall, ‘““Echireree! ‘Tchir- 
eree!’”” And my mother did not cease from sigh- 
ing and groaning. And each sigh and each groan 
echoed itself in my heart. I only just managed to 
control myself. I was on the point of jumping 
out of bed, falling at my mother’s feet, kissing her 
hands, and confessing to her all my sins. I did 
not do this. I covered myself with all the bed- 
clothes, so that I might not hear my mother sighing 
and groaning and her bed creaking. My eyes 
closed. The wind howled, and the cricket chirped, 
“wbehireree tl! ) Dchirereel:. yDchireree}). 3) יו אע‎ 
ree!’” And there spun around before my eyes a 
man like a top—a man I seemed to know. I could 
have sworn it was the teacher in his pointed cap. 
He was spinning on one foot, round, and round, and 
round. His cap sparkled, his eyes glistened, and 
his earlocks flew about. No, it was not the teacher. 
It was a spinning-top—a, curious, living top with a 
pointed cap and earlocks. By degrees the teacher- 
top, or the top-teacher ceased from spinning round. 
And in its place stood Pharaoh, the king of Egypt 
whose story we had learnt a week ago. Pharaoh, 
king of Egypt, stood naked before me. He had 


174 


The Spinning Top 
only just come out of the river. He had my little 
prayer-book in his hand. I could not make out 
how that wicked king, who had bathed in Jewish 
blood, came to have my prayer-book. And I saw 
seven cows, lean and starved, mere skin and bones, 
with big horns and long ears. They came to me 
one after the other. They opened their mouths 
and tried to swallow me. Suddenly, there appeared 
my friend Benny. 116 took hold of their long 
ears, and twisted them round. Some one was cry- 
ing softly, sobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping. 
A man stood near me. 116 was not a human being. 
He said to me softly: 

‘Tell me, son, on which day do you recite the 
mourner’s prayer for me?”’ 

I understood that this was my father of whom 
my mother had told me so many good things. I 
wanted to tell him the day on which I must say 
the mourner’s prayer for him, but I had forgotten 
it. I fretted myself. 1 rubbed my forehead, and 
tried to remind myself of the day, but I could not. 
Did you ever hear the like? I forgot the day of 
the anniversary of my father’s death. Listen, 
Jewish children, can you not tell] me when the 
day is? Why are you silent? Help! Help! 
Help! 


“God be with you! Why are shouting? Why 
do you shriek? What is the matter with you? 
May the Lord preserve you!”’ 

You will understand it was my mother who was 
_ speaking to me. She held my head. I could feel 


175 


Jewish Children 


her trembling and shaking. The lowered lamp gave 
out no light, but an oppressive stench. I saw my 
mother’s shadow dancing on the wall. The points 
of the kerchief she wore on her head were like two 
horns. Her eyes gleamed horribly in the darkness. 

‘‘When do I say the mourner’s prayer, mother? 
Tell me, when do I say the mourner’s prayer?” 

“God be with you! The anniversary of your 
father’s death was not long ago. You have had a 
bad dream. Spit out three times. Tfu! Tfu! 
Tfu! Mayit be fora goodsign! Amen! Amen! 
Amen!” 


Children, I grew up, and Benny grew up. 116 be- 
came a young man with a yellowish beard and a 
round belly. 116 wears a gold chain across it. It 
seems he is a rich man. 

We met in the train. I recognized him by his 
fishy, bulging eyes and his scattered teeth. We 
had not met for a long time. We kissed one 
another and talked of the good old times, the dear 
good days of our childhood, and the foolish things 
we did then. 

‘Do you remember, Benny, that ‘Chanukah’ when 
you won everything with the spinning top? The G 
always fell for you.” 

I looked at Benny. He was convulsed with 
laughter. He held his sides. He was rolling over. 
He was actually choking with laughter. 

“God be with you, Benny! Why this sudden 
burst of laughter, Benny?” 

“Oh!” he cried, “oh! go away with your spinning- 
176 | 


The Spinning Top 
top! That wasagoodtop. Itwasarealtop. It 
was a pudding made only of suet. It was a stew of 
nothing but raisins.” 

“What sort of a top was it, Benny? Tell me 
quicker.” 

“Tt was a top that had all around it, on all the 
corners only the one letter, G.” 


177 


Esther 


I am not going to tell you a story of ‘‘Cheder,” 
or of the teacher, or of the teacher’s wife. I have 
told you enough about them. Perhaps you will 
allow me, this time, in honour of the feast of 
“Purim,’ to tell you a story of the teacher’s 
daughter, Esther. 


If the Esther of the Bible was as beautiful a 
creature as the Esther of my story, then it is no 
wonder she found favour in the eyes of King 
Ahasuerus. The Esther of whom I am going to 
tell you was loved by everybody, everybody, even 
by me and by my older brother Mottel, although 
he was “Bar-mitzvah” long ago, and they were 
making up a match for him, and he was wearing a 
watch and chain this good while. (If 1 am not mis- 
taken, he had already started to grow a beard at the 
time 1 speak of.) And that my brother Mottel 
loves Esther, I am positive. He thinks I do not 
know that his going to “Cheder’ every Sabbath to 
read with the teacher is a mere pretext, a yesterday’s 
day! The teacher snores loudly. The teacher’s 
wife stands on the doorstep talking with the women. 
We boys play around the room, and Mottel and 
178 


Esther 


Esther are staring—she at him, and he at her. It 
sometimes happens that we boys play at “‘blind- 
man’s-buff.”’ Do you know what ‘“blind-man’s- 
buff” is? Well, then I will tell you. You take 
a boy, bandage his eyes with a handkerchief, place 
him in the middle of the floor, and all the boys 
fly round him crying: ‘“‘Blindman, blindman, catch 
me!” 

Mottel and Esther also play at “blind-man’s- 
buff” with us. ‘They like the game because, when 
they are playing it, they can chase one another— 
she him, and he her. 

And I have many more proofs I could give 
you that— But I am not that sort. 

I once caught them holding hands, he hers, and 
she his. And it was not on the Sabbath either, 
but on a weekday. It was towards evening, be- 
tween the afternoon and the evening prayers. He 
was pretending to go to the synagogue. He strayed 
into “Cheder.”’ ‘‘Where is the teacher?” ‘The 
teacher is not here.” 4400 he went and gave her 
his hand, Esther, that is. 1 saw them. 116 with- 
drew his hand and gave me a “groschen’ to tell 
no one. I asked two, and he gave me two. | 
asked three, and he gave me three. What do you 
think—if I had asked four, or five, or six, would 
he not have given them? But I am not that sort. 

Another time, too, something happened. But 
enough of this. I will rather tell you the real story 
—the one I promised you. 


As I told you, my brother Mottel is grown up. 
179 


Jewish Children. 


He does not go to “Cheder”’ any more, nor does 
he wish to learn anything at home. For this, my 
father calls him ‘‘Man of clay.’’ 116 has no other 
name for him. My mother does not like it. What 
sort of a habit is it to call a young man, almost a 
bridegroom, a man of clay? My father says he 
is nothing else but a man of clay. They quarrel 
about it. I do not know what other parents do, 
but my parents are always quarrelling. Day and 
night they are quarrelling. 

If I were to tell you how my father and mother 
quarrel, you would split your sides laughing. But 
I am not that sort. 

In a word, my brother Mottel does not go to 
“Cheder’ any more. Nevertheless, he does not 
forget to send the teacher a “Purim’’ présent. 
Having been a pupil of his he sends him a nice 
poem in Hebrew, illuminated with a “Shield of 
David,” and two paper “roubles.’ With whom 
does he send this “Purim” present? With me, of 
course. My brother says to me, ‘Here, hand the 
teacher this “Purim” present. When you come 
back, I will give you ten ‘groschens.’” ‘Ten “gros- 
chens” is money. But what then? 1 want the 
money now. My brother said I was a heathen. 
Said I: “It may be 1 ama heathen. 1 will not argue 
about it. But I want to see the money,” said I. 
Who do you think won? 

He gave me the ten “groschens,”’ and handed me 
the teacher’s “Purim” present in a sealed envelope. 
When I was going off, he thrust into my hand a 
second envelope and said to me, in a quick whisper: 
‘And this you will give to Esther.” ‘To Esther?” 
180 


2 


ai 
ר‎ 3 


Esther 


“To Esther.” Any one else in my place would 
have asked twice as much for this. But I am not 
that sort. 


‘Father of the Universe,” thought I, when I 
was going off with the “Purim” present, “what can 
my brother have written to the teacher’s daughter? 
I must have a peep—only just a peep. I will not 
take a bite out of it. I will only look at it.” 

And I opened Esther’s letter and read a whole 
‘Book of Esther.” I will repeat what was there, ° 
word for word. 


“FROM MORDECAI TO ESTHER, 

“And there was a man, a young man in 
Shushan—our village. His name was Mordecai 
and he loved a maiden called Esther. And the 
maiden was beautiful, charming. And, the maiden 
found favour in his eyes. The maiden told this to 
no one because Mottel had asked her not to. Every 
- day Mottel passes her house to catch a glimpse of 
Esther. And when the time comes for Esther to 
get married, Mottel will go with her under the wed- 
ding canopy.” 


What do you say to my brother—how he trans- 
lated the ‘Book of Esther”? I should like to hear 
what the teacher will say to such a translation. 
But how comes the cat over the water? Hush! 
There’s a way, as I am a Jew! I will change the 
letters, give the teacher’s poem to Esther, and 
E'sther’s letter to the teacher. Let him rejoice. 


181 


Jewish Children 


Afterwards, if there’s a fine to do, will I be to 
blame? Don’t all people make mistakes some- 
times? Does it not happen that even the post- 
master of our village himself forgets to give up 
letters? No such thing will ever happen to me. 
I am not that sort. 


“Good ‘Yom-tov,’ teacher,” I cried the moment I 
rushed into ‘‘Cheder,”’ in such an excited voice that 
he jumped. ‘‘My brother Mottel has sent you a 
‘Purim’ present, and he wishes you to live to next 
year.) 

And I gave the teacher Esther’s letter. He 
opened it, read it, thought a while, looked at it 
again, turned it about on all sides, as if in search 
of something. ‘“‘Search, search,” I said to myself, 
“and you will find something.” 

The teacher put on his silver spectacles, read 
the letter, and did not even make a grimace. He 
only sighed—no more. Later he said to me: 
“Wait. 1 will write a few 1169. And he took 
the pen and ink and started to write a few lines. 
Meanwhile, I turned around in the ‘‘Cheder.”’ The 
teacher’s wife gave me a little cake. And when no 
one was looking, I put into Esther’s hand the poem 
and the money intended for her father. She 
reddened, went into a corner, and opened the 
envelope slowly. Her face burnt like fire, and her 
eyes blazed dangerously. ‘She doesn’t seem to 
be satisfied with the ‘Purim’ present,” I thought. I 
took from the teacher the few lines he had written. 

‘Good ‘Yom-tov’ to you, teacher,” I cried in 
182 


Esther 


the same excited voice as when I had come 
in. “May you live to next year.” And 1 was 
gone. 

When I was on the other side of the door, 
Esther ran after me. Her eyes were red with 
weeping. ‘‘Here,’’ she said angrily, ‘‘give this to 
your brother!”’ 

On the way home I first opened the teacher’s 
letter. 1316 was more important. ‘This is what was 
written in it. 


““My DEAR AND FAITHFUL PUPIL, Morpecal N. 
‘“T thank you many times for your ‘Purim’ 
present that you have sent me. Last year and the 
year before, you sent me a real ‘Purim’ present. 
But this year you sent me a new translation of 
the ‘Book of Esther.’ I thank you for it. But I 
must tell you, Mottel, that your rendering does not 
please me at all. Firstly, the city of Shushan 
cannot be called ‘our village.’ Then I should like 
to know where it says that Mordecai was a young 
man? And why do you call him Mottel? Which 
Mottel? And where does it say he loved a maiden? 
The word referring to Mordecai and Esther means 
‘brought up.’ And your saying ‘he will go with 
her under the wedding canopy’ 19 just idiotic non- 
sense. [he phrase you quote refers to Ahasuerus, 
not to Mordecai. Then again, it is nowhere 
mentioned in the ‘Book of Esther’ that Ahasuerus 
went with Esther under the wedding canopy. Does 
it need brains to turn a passage upside down? 
Every passage must have sense in it. Last year, 


183 


Jewish Children 


and the year before, you sent me something 
different. This year you sent your teacher a trans- 
lation of the ‘Book of Esther,’ and a distorted 
translation into the bargain. Well, perhaps it 
should be so. Anyhow, I am sending you back 
your translation, and may the Lord send you a 
good year, according to the wishes of your 
teacher.” 


Well, that’s what you call a slap in the face. 
It serves my brother right. I should think he will 
never write such a “Book of Esther” again. 

Having got through the teacher’s letter, I 
must see what the teacher’s daughter writes. On 
opening the envelope, the two paper “roubles” fell 
out. What the devil does this mean? I read the 
letter—only a few lines. 

‘“‘Mottel, I thank you for the two ‘roubles.’ You 
may take them back. I never expected such a 
‘Purim’ present from you. I want no presents from 
you, and certainly no charity.” 

Ha! ha! What do you say to that? She does 
not want charity. A nice story, as 1 am a Jewish 
child! Well, what’s to be done next? Any one 
else in my place would surely have torn up the two 
_ letters and put the money in his pocket. But I am 
not that sort. I dida better thing than that. You 
will hear what. I argued with myself after this 
fashion: When all is said and done, I got paid 
by my brother Mottel for the journey. Then what 
do 1 want him for now? 1 went and gave the two 
letters to my father. I wanted to hear what he 
would say to them. 116 would understand the 


184. 


Esther 


translation better than the teacher, though he is a 
father, and the teacher is a teacher. 


What happened? After my father had read 
the two letters and the translation, he took hold 
of my brother Mottel and demanded an explanation 
of him. Do not ask me any more. 

You want to know the end—what happened to 
Esther, the teacher’s daughter, and to my brother 
Mottel? What could have happened? Esther 
got married to a widower. Oh, how she cried. I 
was at the wedding. Why she cried so much I do 
not know.* It seemed that her heart told her she 
would not live long with her husband. And so it 
was. She lived with him only one-half year, and 
died. I do not know what she died of. I do not 
know. No one knows. Her father and mother 
do not know either. 14 was said she took poison— 
just went and poisoned herself. ‘But it’s a lie. 
Enemies have invented that lie,” said her mother, 
the teacher’s wife. I heard her myself. 

And my brother Mottel? Oh, he» married 
before Esther was even betrothed. He went to 
live with his father-in-law. But he soon returned, 
and alone. What had happened? 116 wanted to 
divorce his wife. Said my father to him: “You 
are a man of 0147. ' My mother would not have 
this. They quarrelled. It was lively. But it 
was useless. He divorced his wife and married 
another woman. He now has two children—a boy 
and a girl. The boy is called Herzl, after Dr. 
Herzl, and the girl is called Esther. My father 


185 


Jewish Children 


wanted her to be named Gittel, and my mother 
was dying for her to be called Leah, after her 
mother. ‘There arose a quarrel between my father 
and mother. ‘They quarrelled a whole day and a 
whole night. They decided the child should be 
named Leah-Gittel, after their two mothers. After- 
wards my father decided he would not have Leah- 
Gittel. ‘What is the sense of it? Why should 
her mother’s name go first?’ My brother Mottel 
came in from the synagogue and said he had named 
the child Esther. Said my father to him: ‘Man 
of clay, where did you get the name Esther from?” 
Mottel replied: ‘Have you forgotten it will soon 
be ‘Purim’?” Well, what have you to say now? 
It’s all over. My father never calls Mottel ‘‘man 
of clay” since then. But both of them—my mother 
and my father—exchanged glances and were silent. 

What the silence and the exchange of glances 
meant I do not know. Perhaps you can tell me? 


186 


The Pocket-Knite 


Listen, children, and I will tell you a story about 
a little knife—not an invented story, but a true 
one, that happened to myself. 

I never wished for anything in the world so 
much as for a pocket-knife. It should be my own, 
and should lie in my pocket, and I should be able to 
take it out whenever I wished, to cut whatever I 
liked. Let my friends know. I had just begun 
to go to school, under Yossel Dardaki, and 1 21- 
ready had a knife, that is, what was almost a knife. 
I made it myself. I tore a goose-quill out of a 
feather brush, cut off one end, and flattened out the 
other. I pretended it was a knife and would cut. 

“What sort of a feather is that? What the 
devil does it mean? Why do you carry a feather 
about with you?” asked my father—a sickly Jew, 
with a yellow, wrinkled face. He had a fit of cough- 
ing. ‘‘Here are feathers for you—playtoys! Tkeh- 
heh-heh-heh!”’ 

“What 640 you care if the child plays?” asked 
my mother of him. She was a short-built woman 
and wore a silk scarf on her head. {Let ‘my 
enemies eat out their hearts!” 

Later, when I was learning the Bible and the com- 
mentaries, I very nearly had a real knife, also of 


187 


Jewish Children 


my own making. I found a bit of steel belonging 
to my mother’s crinoline, and I set it very cleverly 
into a piece of wood. I sharpened the steel beauti- 
fully on a stone, and naturally cut all my fingers 
to pieces. 

“See, just see, how he has bled himself, that son 
of yours,” said my father. He took hold of my 
hands in such a way 6824 the very bones cracked. 
‘““He’s a fine fellow! Heh-heh-heh!”’ 

“Oh, may the thunder strike me!’ cried my 
mother. She took the little knife from me, and 
threw it into the fire. She took no notice of my 
crying. ‘Now it ‘will come to an end. Woe is 
me !" 

I soon got another knife, but in reality, a little 
knife. It had a thick, round, wooden handle, like 
2 barrel, and a curved blade which opened as well 
as closed. You want to know how I came by it? 
I saved up the money from what I got for my 
breakfasts, and I bought the knife for seven “‘gros- 
chens’’ from Solomon, and I owed him three more 
“groschens.” 

Oh, how I loved it, how I loved it. I came home 
from school black and blue, hungry and sleepy, and 
with my ears well boxed. (You see, 1 had just 
started learning the “Gemarra’”’ with Mottel, the 
‘Angel of Death.” “If an ox gore a cow”’ 1 learnt. 
And ifgan ox gores a cow, then I must get beaten.) 
And the first thing I did was to take out my pocket- 
knife from under the black cupboard. (It lay there 
the whole day, because I dared not take it to school 
with me; and at home no one must know that I | 


188 ia 


The Pocket-Knife 


have a knife.) I stroked it, I cut a piece of paper 
with it, split a straw in halves, and then cut up my 
bread into little cubes which I stuck on the tip of 
the blade, and afterwards put into my mouth. 

Later, before going to bed, I cleaned the knife, 
and scrubbed it, and polished it. I took the 
sharpening stone, which 1 found in the hayloft, spit 
on it, and in silence began to work, sharpening the 
little knife, sharpening, sharpening. 

My father, his little round cap on his head, sat 
over a book. ‘He coughed and read, read and 
coughed. My mother was in the kitchen making 
bread. I did not cease from sharpening my knife, 
and sharpening it. 

Suddenly my father, woke up, as from 2 deep 
sleep. 

‘‘Who is making that hissing noise? Who is 
working? What are you doing, you young 
scamp ?”’ 

He stood beside me, and bent over my sharpen- 
ing-stone. He caught hold of my ear. A fit of 
coughing choked him. 

“Aht Ah! Ah! Little ‘knives! Heh-heh- 
heh!” said my father, and he took the knife and 


the sharpening-stone from me. “Such a scamp! 
Why the devil can’t he take a book into his hand? 
Tkeh-heh-heh !” 


I began to cry. My father improved the situa- 
tion by a few slaps. My mother ran in from the 

kitchen, her sleeves turned up, and she began to 
shout: 


“Shah! Shah! What's the matter here? 
189 


Jewish Children 


Why do you beat him? ‘God be with you! What 
have you against the child? Woe is me!” — 

“Little knives,” said my father, ending up with 
a cough. ‘‘A tiny child. Such a devil. ‘[keh-heh- 
heh! Why the devil can’t he take a book into his 
hand? He’s already a youth of eight years... . 
1 will give you  pocket-knives—you good-for- 
nothing, you. ‘In the middle of everything, pocket- 
knives. Thek-heh-heh!”’ 

But what had he against my little knife? How 
had it sinned in his eyes? Why was he so angry? 

I remember that my father was nearly always 
ailing—always pale and_ hollow-cheeked, and 
always angry with the whole world. For the least 
thing he flared up and would tear me to pieces. It 
was fortunate my mother defended me. She took 
me out of his hands. 

And that pocket-knife of mine was thrown away 
somewhere. For eight days on end I looked and 
looked for it, but could not find it. I mourned 
deeply for that curved knife—the good knife. 
How dark and embittered was my soul at school 
when 1 remembered that I would come home with 
a swollen face, with red, torn ears from the hands 
of Mottel, the ‘‘Angel of Death,” because an ox 
gored a cow, and I would have no one to turn to 
for comfort. I was lonely without the curved 
knife—lonely as an orphan. No one saw the tears 
I shed in silence, in my bed, at night, after I had 
come back from “Cheder.” In silence, I cried my 
eyes out. In the morning I was again at “Cheder, ” 
and again I repeated: “If an ox gore a cow,’ and 
190 


The Pocket-Knife 


again 1 felt the blows of Mottel, the “Angel of 
Death”; again my father was angry, coughed, and 
swore atme. Ihad not 2 free moment. 1 did not 
see a smiling face. ‘There was not a single little 
smile for me anywhere, not a single one. 1 had no- 
body. I was alone—all alone in the whole world. 


‘A year went by, and perhaps a year and a half. 
I was beginning to forget the curved knife. It 
seems I was destined to waste all the years of my 
childhood because of pocket-knives. A new knife 
was created—to my misfortune—a brand new 
knife, a beauty, a splendid one. As I live, it was a 
fine knife. It had two blades, fine, steel ones, 
sharp as razors, and a white bone handle, and brass 
ends, and copper rivets. I tell you, it was a beauty, 
a real good pocket-knife. 

‘How came to me such a fine knife, that was never 
meant for suchasI? ‘That is a whole story—a sad, 
but interesting story. Listen to me attentively. 

What value in my eyes had the German Jew who 
lodged with us—the contractor, Herr Hertz 
Hertzenhertz, when he spoke Yiddish, went about 
without a cap, had no beard or earlocks, and had 

his coat-tails cut off? 1 ask you how 1 could have 
helped laughing into his face, when that Jewish- 
Gentile, or Gentilish-Jew talked to me in Yiddish, 
but in a curious Yiddish with a lot of A’s in it. 

“Well, dear boy, which portion of the Law will 
be read this week?” 

“Ha! ha! ha!’ I burst out laughing and hid 
my face in my hands. 


101 


Jewish Children 


“Say, say, my dear child, what portion of the 
Law will be read this week?” 

“Tal hal hal: Balak,’ 1 burst. out with a 
laugh, and ran away. 

But that was only in the beginning, before I knew 
him. Afterwards, when I knew Herr Hertz 
Hertzenhertz better (he lived at our house for 
over a year) I loved him so well that I did not 
care if he said no prayers, and ate his food without 
saying the blessings. Nevertheless, I did not under- 
stand how he existed, and why the Lord allowed 
him to remain in the world. Why was he not 
choked at table? And why did the hair not fall 
out of his uncovered head? 1 had heard from my 
teacher, Mottel, the “Angel of Death,” from his 
own mouth, that this German Jew was only a spirit. 
That is to say, a Jew was turned into a German; 
and later on he might turn into a wolf, a cow, a 
horse, or maybe a duck. A duck? 

“Hal ha! ha! A fine story,’ thought I. 
But I was genuinely sorry for the German. Never- 
theless, I did not understand why my father, who 
was a very orthodox Jew, should pay the German 
Jew so much respect, as also did the other Jews who 
used to come into our house. 

‘Peace be unto you, Reb Hertzenhertz! Blessed 
art thou who comest, Reb Hertz Hertzenhertz!”’ 

I once ventured to ask my father why this was so, 
but he thrust me to one side and said: 

‘“Goaway. It isnot your business. Why do you 
get under our feet? Who the devil wants you? 
192 


The Pocket-Knife 


Why the devil can’t you take a book into your hands? 
Heh-heh-heh-heh !”” 

Again a book? Lord of the world, I also want 
to see; I also want to hear what people are saying. 

I went into the parlour, hid myself in a corner, 
and heard everything the men talked about. Herr 
Hertz Hertzenhertz laughed aloud, and smoked 
thick black cigars that had a very strong smell. 
Suddenly my father came over to me, and gave me 
a smack. 

‘Are you here again, you idler and good-for- 
nothing? What will become of you, you dunce? 
What will become of you? Heh-heh-heh-heh!”’ 

It was nouse. My father drove me out. I took 
a-book into my hands, but I did not want to read it. 
What was I to do? 1 went about the house, from 
one room to the other, until I came to the nicest room 
of all—the room in which slept Herr Hertz Hert- 
zenhertz. Ah, how beautiful and bright it was! 
“The lamps were lit, and the mirror shone. On the 
table was a big, beautiful silver inkstand, and 
beautiful pens, also little ornaments—men, and ani- 
mals, and flowers, and bones and stones, and a little 
knife! Ah, what a beautiful knife! What if I had 
such a knife? What fine things I would make with 
it. How happy I should be. Well, I must try it. 
Is it sharp? Ah, it cuts a hair. It slices up a hair. 
Oh, oh, oh, what a knife! 

One moment 1 held the knife in my hand. I 
looked about me on all sides, and slipped it into my 
/ pocket. My hands trembled. My heart was 


193 


Jewish Children 


beating so loudly that I could hear it saying, “Tick, 
tick, tick!” I heard some one coming. It was 
he—Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz. Ah, what was I to 
do? The knife might remain in my pocket. I 
could put it back later on. Meanwhile, I must get 
out of the room, run away, away, far. 

I could eat no supper that night. My mother felt 
my head. My father threw angry glances at me, 
and told me to go to bed. Sleep? Could I close 
my eyes? I was like dead. What was I to do 
with the little knife? How was I going to put it 
back again? 


“‘Come over here, my little ornament,” said my 
father to me next day. ‘‘Did you see the little 
pocket-knife anywhere?” ’ | 

Of course I was very much frightened. It 
seemed to me that he knew—that everybody knew. 
1 was almost, almost crying out: ‘‘The pocket- 
knife? Here it is.” But something came into my 
throat, and would not let me utter a sound for a 
minute or 90. In a shaking voice I replied: 

‘Where? What pocket-knife?”’ 

‘Where? What knife?” my father mocked at 
me. “What knife? The golden knife. Our 
guest’s knife, you good-for-nothing, you! You 
dunce, you! ‘[keh-heh-heh!”’ " 

‘What do you want of the child?” put in my 
mother. ‘The child knows nothing of anything, 
and he worries him about the knife, the knife.” 

‘The knife—the knife! How can he not know 
about 16?" cried my father angrily. ‘All the 


194. 


The Pocket-Knife 


morning he hears me shouting—The knife! The 
knife! ‘The knife! The house is turned upside 
down for the knife, and he asks ‘Where? What 
knife?’ Go away. Go and wash yourself, you 
good-for-nothing, you. You dunce, dunce! Tkeh- 
heh-heh !” 

I thank Thee, Lord of the Universe, that they 
did not search me. But what was I to do next? 
The knife had to be hidden somewhere, in a safe 
place. Where wasItohideit? Ah! In the attic. 
I took the knife quickly from my pocket, and stuck 
16 into my top-boot. 1 ate, and 1 did not know what 
I was eating. I was choking. 

“Why are you in such a hurry? What the devil 

. ? asked my father. 

‘TI am hurrying off to school,” I answered, and 
grew red as fire. 

“A scholar, all of a sudden. What do you say 
to such a saint?’ he muttered, and glared at me. 
I barely managed to finish my breakfast, and say 
grace. 

‘Well, why are you not off to ‘Cheder,’ my saint?” 
asked my father. 

‘Why do you hunt him so?” asked my mother. 
‘Let the child sit a minute.”’ 

I was in the attic. Deep, deep in a hole lay the 
beautiful knife. It lay there in silence. 

‘“What are you doing in the attic?” called out my 
father. ‘You good-for-nothing! You street-boy! 
_ Tkeh-heh-heh-heh!”’ 

“T am looking for something,” I answered. I 
nearly fell down with fright. 


195 


Jewish Children 


“Something? What is the something? What 

sort of a thing is that something?” 
''/ 28 bo—ok. An—an old ‘Ge—gemar— 
“What? A ‘Gemarra? In the attic? Ah, 
you scamp you! Come down at once. Come 
down. You'll get it from me. You street-boy! 
You dog-beater! You rascal! Tkeh-heh-heh- 
heh!” 

I was not so much afraid of my father’s anger 
as that the pocket-knife might be found. Who 
could tell? (‘Perhaps some one would go up to the 
attic to hang out clothes to dry, or to paint the 
rafters? The knife must be taken down from 
there, and hidden in a better place. I went about 
in fear and trembling. Every glance at my father 
told me that he knew, and that now, now he was 
going to talk to me of the guest’s knife. I had a 
place for it—a grand place. I would bury it in the 
ground, in a hole near the wall. I would put some 
straw on the spot to mark it. “The moment I came 
from “Cheder” 1 ran out into the yard. 1 took the 
knife carefully from my pocket, but had no time to 
look at it, when my father called out: 

‘Where are you at all? Why don’t you go 
and say your prayers? You swine-herd you! You 
are a water-carrier! Tkeh-heh-heh!” 

‘But whatever my father said to me, and as much 
as the teacher beat me, it was all rubbish to me 
when I came home, and had the pleasure of seeing 
my one and only dear friend—my little knife. 


196 


Ta 


The Pocket-Knife 


The pleasure was, alas! mixed with pain, and em- 
bittered by fear—by great fear. 


It is the summer time. ‘The sun is setting. The 
air grows somewhat cooler. The grass emits a 
sweet odour. The frogs croak, and the thick clouds 
fly by, without rain, across the moon. They wish 
to swallow her up. The silvery white moon hides 
herself every minute, and shows herself again. It 
seemed to me that she was flying and flying, but 
was still on the same spot. My father sat down on 
the grass, in a long mantle. 116 had one hand in 
the bosom of his coat, and with the other he 
smoothed down the grass. 116 looked up at the 
star-spangled sky, and coughed and coughed. His 
face was like death, silvery white. 116 was sitting 
on the exact spot where the little knife was hidden. 
He knew nothing of what was in the earth under 
him. Ah, if he only knew! What, for instance, 
would he say, and what would happen to me? 

“Aha!” thought I within myself, ‘you threw 
away my knife with the curved blade, and now I 
have a nicer and a better one. You are sitting on 
it, and you know nothing. Oh, father, father!” 

‘‘Why do you stare at me like a tom-cat?” asked 
my father. “Why do you sit with folded arms 
like a self--satisied old man? Can you not find 
something to do? Have you said the night prayer? 
May the devil not take you, scamp! May an evil 
end not come upon you! Tkeh-heh-heh!” 

When he says may the devil not take you, and 


197 


Jewish Ghildren 


may an evil end not come upon you, then he is not 
angry. On the contrary, it is a sign that he is in a 
good humour. And, surely, how could one help 
being in a good humour on such a wonderfully 
beautiful night, when every one is drawn out of 
doors into the street, under the soft, fresh, brilliant 
sky? Every one is now out of doors—my father, 
my mother, and the younger children who are look- 
ing for little stones and playing in the sand. Herr 
Hertz Hertzenhertz was going about in the yard, 
without a hat, smoking a cigar, and singing a Ger- 
man song. 116 looked at me, and laughed. Prob. 
ably he was laughing because my father was driv- 
ing me away. But I laughed at them all. Soon 
they would be going to bed, and I would go out into 
the yard (I slept in the open, before the door, be- 
cause of the great heat), and I would rejoice in, 
and play with my knife. 

The house is asleep. 16 is silent around and 
about. Cautiously I get up; I am on all fours, 
like a cat; and 1 steal out into the yard. The 
night is silent. The air is fresh and pure. Slowly 
I creep over to the spot where the little knife lies 
buried. 1 take it out carefully, and look at it by the 
light of the moon. It shines and glitters, like guinea- 
gold, like a diamond. I lift up my eyes, and I see 
that the moon is looking straight down on my knife. 
Why is she looking at it so? I turn round. She 
looks after me. Maybe she knows whose knife it 
is, and where 1 got it? Got it? Stole it! 

For the first time since the knife came into my 
hands has this terrible word entered my thoughts. 
198 


The Pocket-Knife 


Stolen? ‘Then 1 am, in short, a thief, a common 
thief? In the Holy Law, in the Ten Command- 
ments, are written, in big letters: ‘“[THOU SHALT 
NOT STEAL.” | 

Thou shalt not steal. 4000 1 סטהם‎ stolen. What 
will they do to me in hell for that? Woe is me! 
They will cut off my hand—the hand that stole. 
They will whip me with iron rods. They will 
roast and burn me in a hot oven. I will glow for 
ever andever. The knife must be given back. The 
knife must be put back in its place. One must not 
hold a stolen knife. Tomorrow I will put it back. 

That was what I decided. And I put the knife 
into my bosom. I imagined it was burning, scorch- 
ing me. No, it must be hidden again, buried in the 
earth till tomorrow. ‘The moon still looked down 
on me. What was she looking at? The moon 
saw. She was a witness. 

I crept back to the house, to my sleeping-place. 
I lay down again, but could not sleep. I tossed 
about from side to side, but could not fall asleep. 
It was already day when 1 dozed off. I dreamt 
of a moon, I dreamt of iron rods, and I dreamt of 
little knives. I got up very early, said my prayers 
with pleasure, with delight, ate my breakfast while 
standing on one foot, and marched off to “Cheder.” 

“Why are you in such a hurry for ‘Cheder’?” 
cried my father to me. ‘What is driving you? 
You will not lose your knowledge if you go a little 
later. You will have time enough for mischief. 
You scamp! You’ epicurean! You heathen! 


Tkeh-heh-heh-heh !”’ 
199 


Jewish Children 


‘Why so late? Just look at this.” The teacher 
stopped me, and pointed with his finger at my com- 
rade, Berrel the red one, who was standing in the 
corner with his head down. 

“Do you see, bandit? ‘You must know that from 
this day his name 19 not Berrel the red one, as he 
was called. He is now called a fine name. His 
name is now Berrel the thief. Shout it out, 
children. Berrel the thief! Berrel the thief!” 

The teacher drew out the words, and put a little 
tune into them. The pupils repeated them after 
him, like a chorus. 

“Berrel the thief—Berrel the thief!” 

I was petrified. A cold wave passed over my 
body. I did not know what it all meant. 

‘Why are you silent, you heathen, you?” cried 
the teacher, and gave me an unexpected smack in 
the face. “Why are you silent, you heathen? 
Don’t you hear the others singing? Join in with 
them, and help them. Berrel the thief—Berrel the 
thief !”” 

My limbs trembled. My teeth-rattled. But, I 
helped the others to shout aloud ‘‘Berrel the thief ! 
Berrel the thief!” 

‘Louder, heathen,” prompted the teacher. ‘In 
a stronger voice—stronger.”’ 

And I, along with the rest of the choir, sang out 
in a variety of voices, “Berrel the thief—Berrel 
the thief!” 

‘Sh—sh—sh—-a—a—ah!’ cried the teacher, 
banging the table with his open hand. ‘Hush! 
200 


The Pocket-Knife 


Now we will betake ourselves to pronouncing 
judgment.” 116 spoke in a sing-song voice. 

‘“Ah, well, Berrel thief, come over here, my child. 
Quicker, a little quicker. Tell me, my boy, what 
your name is.” ‘This also was said in 2 sing-song. 

mperrel(” 

‘What else?” 

‘‘Berrel—Berrel the thief.” 

‘“That’s right, my dear child. Now you are a 
good boy. May your strength increase, and may 
you grow stronger in every limb!’ (Still in the 
same sing-song.) ‘Take off your clothes. That’s 
right. But can’t you do it quicker? I beg of you, 
be quick about it. That’s right, little Berrel, my 
child.” 

Berrel stood before us as naked as when he was 
born. Not a drop of blood showed in his body. 
He did not move a limb. 1115 eyes were lowered. 
He was as dead as a corpse. 

The teacher called out one of the older scholars, 
still speaking in the same sing-song voice: 

“Well, now, Hirschalle, come out from behind 
the table, over here to me. Quicker. Just so. 
And now tell us the story from beginning to end— 
how our Berrel became a thief. Listen, boys, pay 
attention.” 

And Hirschalle began to tell the story. Berrel 
had got the little collecting box of "קסת''‎ Mayer 
the ‘‘Wonder-worker,” into which his mother threw 
a “kopek,’ sometimes two, every Friday, before 
lighting the Sabbath candles. Berrel had fixed his 
eyes on that box, on which there hung a little lock. 

201 


Jewish Children 


By means of a straw gummed at the end, he had 
managed to extract the “‘kopeks’’ from the box, 
one by one. His mother, Slatte, the hoarse one, 
suspecting something wrong, opened the box, and 
fovnd in it one of the straws tipped with gum. 
She beat her son Berrel. And after the whipping 
she had prevailed on the teacher to give him, he 
confessed that for a whole year—a round year, he 
had been extracting the ‘‘kopeks,” one by one, and 
that, every Sunday, he had bought himself two little 
cakes, some locust beans, and—and so forth, and 
so forth. 

‘‘Now, boys, pronounce judgment on him. You 
know how to do it. This is not the first time. Let 
each give his verdict, and say what must be done to 
a boy who steals ‘kopeks’ from a charity-box, by 
means of a, straw.” 

The teacher put his head to one side. He closed 
his eyes, and turned his right ear to Hirschalle. 
Hirschalle answered at the top of his voice: 

‘A: thief who steals ‘kopeks’ from 2 charity-box 
should be flogged until the blood spurts from him.” 

‘“‘Moshalle, what is to be done to a thief who 
steals ‘kopeks’ from a charity-box?” 

“A thief,” replied Moshalle, in a wailing voice, 
‘‘a thief who steals ‘kopeko’ from 2 charity-box 
should be stretched out. ‘Two boys should be put 
on his head, two on his feet, and two should flog 
him with pickled rods.” 

‘“Topalle Tutteratu, what is to be done to a thief 
who steals ‘kopeks’ from a charity-box?” 

Kopalle Kuckaraku, a boy who could not pro- 
202 


The Pocket-Knife 


nounce the letters K and G, wiped his face, and 
gave his verdict in a squeaking voice. 

‘‘A boy who steals ‘topets’ from the charity-bots 
should be punished lite this. Every boy should do 
over to him, and shout into his face, three times, 
thief, thief, thief.” 

The whole school laughed. ‘The master put his 
thumb on his wind-pipe, like a cantor, and called 
out to me, as if I were a bridegroom being called 
up, at the synagogue, to read the portion of the 
Law for the week: 

‘Tell me, now, my dear little boy, what would 
you say should be done to a thief who steals ‘kopeks’ 
from 2 charity-box.”’ 

I tried to reply, but my tongue would not obey 
me. I shivered as with ague. Something was in 
my throat, choking me. A cold sweat broke out 
all over my body. There was a whistling in my 
ears. 1 saw before me, not the teacher, nor the 
naked Berrel the thief, nor my comrades. I saw 
before me only knives—pocket-knives without an 
end, white, open knives that had many blades. 
And there, beside the door, hung the moon. She 
looked at me, and smiled, like a human being. 
My head was going round. The whole room—the 
table and the books, the boys and the moon that 
hung beside the door, and the little knives—all were 
whirling round. I felt as if my two feet were 
chopped off. Another moment, and I might have 
fallen down, but I controlled myself with all my 
strength, and I did not fall. 

In the evening, I came home, and felt that my 

203 


Jewish Children 


face was burning. My cheeks were on fire, and in 
my ears was a hissing noise. I heard some one 
speaking to me, but what they said I do not know. 
My father was saying something, and seemed to be 
angry. He wanted to beat me. My mother in- 
tervened. She spread out her apron, as a clucking 
hen spreads out her wing to defend her chickens 
from injury. I heard nothing, and did not want 
to hear. I only wanted the darkness to fall sooner, 
so that I might make an end of the little knife. 
What was I to do with it? Confess everything, 
and give it up? ‘Then I would suffer the same pun- 
ishment as Berrel. ‘Throw it carelessly somewhere? 
But I may be caught? ‘Throw it away, and no 
more, so long as I am rid of it? Where was I to 
throw it in order that it might not be found by 
anybody? On the roof? ‘The noise would be 
heard. In the garden? It might be found. 
Ah, I know! 1 have a plan, 111 throw it into the 
water. A good plan, as 1 live. Ill throw it into 
the well that is in our own yard. This plan pleased 
me so much that I did not wish to dwell on it longer. 
I took up the knife, and ran off straight to the well. 
It seemed to me that I was carrying in my hand not 
a knife but something repulsive—a filthy little 
creature of which I must rid myself at once. But, 
still I was sorry. It was such a fine little knife. 
For a moment, I stood thinking, and it seemed to 
me that I was holding in my hand a living thing. 
My heart ached for it. Surely, surely, it has cost 
me so much heartache. It is a pity for the living. 
I summoned all my courage, and let it out suddenly 
204 


The Pocket-Knife 


from my fingers. Plash! The water bubbled up 
for a moment. Nothing more was heard, and my 
knife was gone. I stood a moment at the well 
and .listened. 1 heard nothing. Thank God, I 
was rid of it. My heart was faint, and full of 
longing. Surely, it was a fine knife—such a 


knife! 


I went back to bed, and saw that the moon was 
still looking down at me. And it seemed to me 
she had seen everything I had done. From the 
distance a voice seemed to be saying to me: “But, 
you are a thief all the same. Catch him, beat him. 
He is a thief, a thief.” 

I stole back into the house, and into my own bed. 

I dreamt that I ran, swept through the air. I 
flew with my little knife in my hand. And the 
moon looked at me and said: 

“Catch him, beat him. He is a thief—a thief.” 


A long, long sleep, and a heavy, a very heavy 
dream. A fire burnt within me. My head was 
buzzing. Everything I saw was red as _ blood. 
Burning rods of fire cut into my flesh. I was swim- 
ming in blood. Around me wriggled snakes and 
serpents. They had their mouths open, ready to 
swallow me. Right into my ears some one was 
blowing a trumpet. And, some one was standing 
Over me, and shouting, keeping time with the trum- 
pet: “Whip him, whip him, whip him. He is a 
thie—ef.” And 1 myself shouted: ‘Oh, oh, take 


the moon away from me. Give her up the little 
205 


Jewish Children 


knife. What have you against poor Berrel? 
He is not guilty. It is I who am a thief—a 
1 

Beyond that, I remember nothing. 


I opened one eye, then the other. Where was 
I? On a bed, I think. Ah, is that you, mother, 
mother? She does not hear me. Mother, mother, 
mo—o—other! What is this? I imagine I am 
shouting aloud. Shah! 1 listen. She is weeping 
silently. I also see my father, with his yellow, 
sickly face. 116 is sitting near me, an open book 
in his hand. 116 reads, and sighs, and coughs 
and groans. It seems that 1 am dead already. 
Dead? . . . All at once, I feel that it is growing 
brighter before my eyes. Everything is growing 
lighter, too. My head and my limbs are lighter. 
There is a ringing in my ear, and in my other ear. 
Tschinna! 1 sneezed. Akhstchu! 

‘Good health! May your days be lengthened! 
May your years be prolonged! It is a good sign. 
Blessed art Thou, O Lord!” 

‘“Sneezed in reality? Blessed be the Most 
High!” 

“Let us call at once Mintze the butcher’s wife. 
She knows how to avert the evil eye.” 

‘The doctor ought to be called—the doctor.” 

“The doctor? What for? That is nonsense. 
The Most High is the best doctor. Blessed be the 
Lord, and praised be His Name!” 

“Go asunder, people. Separate a bit. It is ter- 
0 hot. In the name of God, go away.” 

20 


The Pocket-Knife 


“Ah, yes. I told you that you have to cover 
him with wax. Well, who is right?” 

“Praise be the Lord, and blessed be His Holy 
Name! Ah, God! God! Blessed be the Lord! 
and praised be His Holy Name!” 

They fluttered about me. They looked at me. 
Fach one came and felt my head. They prayed 
over me, and buzzed around me. They licked my 
forehead, and spat out, by way of acharm. ‘They 
poured hot soup down my throat, and filled my 
mouth with spoonfuls of preserves. Every one 
flew around me. ‘They cared for me as if 1 were the 
apple of their eye. ‘They fed me with broths and 
tiny chickens, as if I were an infant. They did not 
leave me alone. My mother sat by me always, and 
told me over and over again the whole story of how 
they had lifted me up from the ground, almost dead, 
and how I had been lying for two weeks on end, 
burning like a fire, croaking like a frog, and mutter- 
ing something about whippings and little knives. 
They! already imagined I was dead, when suddenly 
I sneezed seven times. I had practically come to 
life again. 

‘Now we see what a great God we have, blessed 
be He, and praised be His Name!’ That was how 
my mother ended up, the tears springing to her eyes. 
“Now we can see that when we call to Him He 
listens to our sinful requests and our guilty tears. 
We shed a lot, a lot of tears, your father and I, 
until the Lord had pity on us... . We nearly, | 
nearly lost our child through our sinfulness. May 
we suffer in your stead! And through what? 


207 


Jewish Ghitiren 


Through a boy who was a thief, a certain Berrel 
whom the teacher flogged at ‘Cheder, almost until 
he bled. When you came home from ‘Cheder’ you 
were more dead than alive. May your mother 
suffer instead of you! ‘The teacher is a tyrant, a 
murderer. The Lord will punish him for it—the 
Lord of the Universe. No, my child, if the Lord 
lets us live, when you get well, we will send you to 
another teacher, not to such a tyrant as is the ‘Angel 
of Death,’—may his name be blotted out for ever!”’ 

‘These words made a terrible impression on me. 
1 threw my arms around my mother, and kissed her. 

‘Dear, dear mother.”’ | 

And my father came over to me softly. He put 
his cold, white hand on my forehead, and said to 
me kindly, without a trace of anger: 

“Oh, how you frightened us, you heathen you! 
Tkeh-heh-heh-heh !" 

Also the Jewish German, or the German Jew, 
Herr Hertz Hertzenhertz, his cigar between his 
teeth, bent down and touched my cheek, with his 
clean-shaven chin. 116 said to me in German: 


“Good! Good! Be well—be well!” 


,8 


A few weeks after I got out of bed, my father 
said to me: 

“Well, my son, now go 40 ‘Cheder,’ and never 
think of little knives again, or other such nonsense. 
It is time you began to be a bit of a man. If it 
please God, you will be ‘Bar-Mitzvah’ in three years 
—may you live to a hundred and twenty. Tkeh- 
heh-heh !" 


208 


The Pocket-Knife 


With such sweet words did my father send me 
off to ‘“Cheder,’”’ to my new teacher, “Reb” Chayim 
Kotter. It was the first time that I had heard such 
good kind words from my father. And I forgot, 
in a moment, all his harshness, and all his abuse, 
and all his blows. It was as if they had never 
existed in the world. If I were not ashamed, I 
would have thrown my arms about his neck, and 
kissed him. But how can one kiss a father? Ha! 
ha! ha! 

My mother gave me a whole apple and three 
“groschens’”’ to take to “Cheder,” and the German 
gave me a few “kopeks.”’ 116 pinched my cheek, 
and said in his language: 

“Best boy, good, good!” 

I took my “Gemarra” under my arm, kissed the 
“Mezuzah,” and went off to “Cheder” like one newly 
born, with a clean heart, and fresh, pious thoughts. 
The sun looked down, and greeted me with its warm 
rays. ‘The little breeze stole in under one of my 
earlocks. The birds twittered—Tif—tif—tiftif! 
I was lifted up. 1 was borne on the breeze. I 
wanted to run, jump, dance. Oh, how good it is 
—how sweet to be alive and to be honest, when one 
is not a thief and not a liar. 

I pressed my ‘“‘Gemarra’ tightly to my breast, and 
still tighter. 1 ran to “Cheder’ with pleasure, with 
joy. And I swore by my “Gemarra’ that I would 
never, never touch what belonged to another— 
/ never, never steal, and never, never deny anything 


again. 1 would always be honest, for ever and ever 
honest. 


209 


On the Fiddle 


Children, I will now play for you a little tune on 
the fiddle. I imagine there is nothing better and 
finer in the world than to be able to play on the 
fiddle. What? Perhaps it is not so? I don't 
know how it is with you. But I know that since 1 
first reached the age of understanding, my heart 
longed for a fiddle. I loved as my life any musician 
whatever—no matter what instrument he played. 
If there was a wedding anywhere in the town, I 
was the first to run forward and welcome the musi- 
cians. I loved to steal over to the bass, and draw 
my fingers across one of the strings—Boom! And 
I flew away. Boom! And I flew away. For this 
same “‘boom’’ I once got it hot from Berel Bass. 
Berel Bass—a cross Jew with a flattened out nose, 
> and a sharp glance—pretended not to see me steal- 
ing over to the bass. And when I stretched out 
my hand to the thick string, he caught hold of me 
by the ear and dragged me, respectfully, to the door: 

‘Here, scamp, kiss the ‘Mezuzah.’ ” 

But this was not of much consequence to me. It 
did not make me go a single step from the musicians. 
I loved them all, from Sheika the little fiddler with 
his beautiful black beard and his thin white hands, 
to Getza the drummer with his beautiful hump, and, 
210 


On the Fiddle 
if you will forgive me for mentioning it, the big 
bald patches behind his ears. Not once, but many 
times did I lie hidden under a bench, listening to 
the musicians playing, though I was frequently found 
and sent home. And from there, from under the 
bench, I could see how Sheika’s thin little fingers 
danced about over the strings; and I listened to 
the sweet sounds which he drew so cleverly out of 
the little fiddle. 

Afterwards I used to go about in a state of great 
inward excitement for many days on end. , And 
Sheika and his little fiddle stood before my eyes 
always. At night I saw him in my dreams; and in 
the daytime I saw him in reality; and he never left 
my imagination. When no one was looking I used 
to imagine that I was Sheika, the little fiddler. I 
used to curve my left arm and move my fingers, and 
draw out my right hand, as if I were drawing the 
bow across the strings. At the same time I threw 
my head to one side, closing my eyes a little—just 
as Sheika did, not a hair different. 

My “Rebbe,” Nota-Leib, once caught me doing ~ 
this. It happened in the middle of a lesson. I was 
moving my arms about, throwing my head to one 
side, and blinking my eyes, and he gave me a sound 
box on the ears. 

“What 2 scamp can do!’ We are teaching him 
his lessons, and he makes faces and catches flies!” 


I promised myself that, even if the world turned 
upside down, I must have a little fiddle, let it cost 


211 


Jewish Children 


me what it would. But what was I to make a 
fiddle out of? Of cedar wood, of course. But it’s 
easy to talk of cedar wood. How was I to come by 
it when, as everybody knows, the cedar tree grows 
only in Palestine? But what does the Lord do for 
me? 116 goes and puts a certain thought in my 
head. In our house there was an old sofa. ‘This 
sofa was left us, as a legacy, by our grandfather 
“Reb” Anshel. And my two uncles fought over 
this sofa with my father—peace be unto him! My 
uncle Benny argued that since he was my grand- 
father’s oldest son, the sofa belonged to him; and 
my uncle Sender argued that he was the youngest 
son, and that the sofa belonged to him. And my 
father—peace be unto him!—argued that although 
he was no more than a son-in-law to my grand- 
father, and had no personal claim on the sofa, still, 
since his wife, my mother, that is, was the only 
daughter of “Reb” Anshel, the sofa belonged, by 
right, to her. (But all this happened long ago. 
And as the sofa has remained in our house, this was 
a proof that it was our sofa. And our two aunts 
interfered, my aunt Etka, and my aunt Zlatka. 
They began to invent scandals and to carry tales 
from one house to another. It was sofa and sofa, 
and nothing else but sofa! ‘The town rocked, all 
because of the sofa. However, to make a long 
story short, the sofa remained our sofa. 

This same sofa was an ordinary wooden sofa 
covered with a thin veneer. This veneer had come 
unloosened in many places and was split up. It 
had now a number of small mounds. And the upper 
212 


On the Fiddle 


layer of the veneer which had come unloosened 
was of the real cedar wood—the wood of which 
fiddles are made. At least, that is what I was 
told at school. The sofa had one fault, and this 
fault was, in reality, a good quality. For instance, 
when one sat on it one could not get up off it again 
because it stood a little on the slant. One side was 
higher than the other, and in the middle there was 
a hole. And the good thing about our sofa was 
that no one wanted to sit on it, and it was put 
away in a corner, to one side, in compulsory retire- 
ment. 

It was on this sofa that J had cast my eyes, to 
make a fiddle out of the cedar wood veneer. A 
bow I had already provided myself with, long ago. 
I had a comrade, Shimalle Yudel, the car-owner’s 
son. He promised me a few hairs from the tail 
of his father’s horse. ‘And resin to smear the bow 
with I had myself. I hated to depend on miracles. 
I got the resin from another friend of mine, Mayer- 
Lippa, Sarah’s son, for a bit of steel from my 
mother’s old crinoline which had been knocking 
about in the attic. Out of this piece of steel, 
Mayer Lippa afterwards made himself a little 
knife. It is true when I saw the knife I wanted 
him to change back again with me. But he would 
not have it. He began to shout: 

“A clever fellow that! What do you say to him! 
1 worked hard for three whole nights. I sharpened 
and sharpened and cut all my fingers sharpening, 
and now he comes and wants me to change back 
again with |מזות‎ 


213 


Jewish Children 


“Tust look at him!” I cried. ‘‘Well then, it won't 
be! iA great bargain for you—a little bit of steel! 
Isn’t there enough steel knocking about in our attic? 
There will be enough for our children, and our 
children’s children even.”’ 

Anyway, I had everything that was necessary. 
And there only remained one thing for me to do— 
to scale off the cedar wood from the sofa. For 
this work I selected a very good time, when my 
mother was in the shop, and my father had gone to 
lie down and have a nap after dinner. I hid myself 
in a corner and, with a big nail, I betook myself to 
my work in good earnest. My father heard, in his 
sleep, how some one was scraping something. At 
first he thought there were mice in the house, and he 
began to make a noise from his bedroom to drive 
them off—‘‘Kush! Kush!” 1 was like dead... . 
My father turned over on the other side and when 
I heard him snoring again, I went back to my work. 
Suddenly I looked about me. My father was 
standing and staring at me with curious eyes. It 
appeared that he could not, on any account, under- 
stand what was going on—what I was doing. 
Then, when he saw the spoiled and torn sofa, he 
realized what I had done. 1316 pulled me out of the 
corner by the ear and beat me so much that I fainted 
away and had to be revived. I actually had to have 
cold water thrown over me to bring me to life 
again. 

“The Lord be with you! What have you done 
to the child?’ my mother wailed, the tears start- 
ing to her eyes. 


214 


On the Fiddle 


“Your beautiful son! 116 will drive me into my 
grave, while I am still living,” said my father, who 
was white as chalk. 116 put his hand to his heart 
and was attacked by a fit of coughing which lasted 
several minutes. 

‘Why should you eat your heart out like this?” 
my mother asked him. “As it is you are a sickly 
man. Just look at the face you’ve got. May my 
enemies have as healthy a year!” 


My desire to play the fiddle grew with me. The 
older I grew, the stronger became my desire. 
And, as if out of spite, I was destined to hear music 
every day of the week. Right in the middle of 
the road, halfway between my home and the school, 
stood a little house covered with earth. And from 
that house came forth various sweet sounds. But 
most often than all the playing of a fiddle could be 
heard. In that house there lived a musician whose 
name was Naphtali “Bezborodka,’—a Jew who 
wore a short jacket, curled-up earlocks, and a 
starched collar. He had a fine-sized nose. It 
looked as if it had been stuck on his face. He had 
thick lips and black teeth. His face was pock- 
pitted, and had not on it even signs of a beard. 
That is why he was called “Bezborodka,’ the 
Beardless One. 116 had a wife who was like a 
machine. The people called her ‘Mother Eve.” 
Of children he had about a dozen and ahalf. They 
were ragged, half-naked, and bare-footed. And 
each child, from the biggest to the smallest, played 
on a musical instrument. One played the fiddle, 


215 


Jewish Children 


another the ’cello, another the double-bass, another 
the trumpet, another the “Ballalaika,’ another the 
drum, and another the cymbals. And amongst 
them there were some who could whistle the long- 
est melody with their lips, or between their teeth. 
Others could play tunes on little glasses, or little 
pots, or bits of wood. And some made music with 
their faces. They were demons, evil spirits— 
nothing else. 

I made the acquaintance of this family quite by 
accident. One day, as I was standing outside the 
window of their house, listening to them playing, 
one of the children, Pinna the flautist, a youth of 
about fifteen, in bare feet, caught sight of me through 
the window. He came out to me and asked me if 
I liked his playing. 

''1 only wish,” said I, “that I may play as well 
as you in ten years’ time.” 

‘‘Can’t you manage it?” he asked of me. And he 
told me that for two and a half ‘roubles’ a month, 
his father would teach me how to play. But if I 
liked he himself, the son, that is, would teach me. 

‘Which instrument would you like to learn 0 
play?” he asked. “On the fiddle?” 

“On the fiddle.” 

‘On the fiddle?” he repeated. ‘Can you pay 
two and a half ‘roubles’ a month? Or are you 
as unfortunate as I am?” 

“So far as that goes, I can manage 16 I said. 
“But what then? Neither my father nor my 
mother, nor my teacher must know that I am learn- 
ing to play the fiddle.” 

216 


On the Fiddle 


‘The Lord keep us from telling it!” he cried. 
“Whose business is it to drum the news through 
the town? Maybe you have on you a cigar end, 
or a cigarette? No? You don't smoke? Then 
lend me a ‘kopek’ and I will buy cigarettes for 
myself. But you must tell no one, because my 
father must not know that I smoke. And if my 
mother finds that I have money, she will take it 
from me and buy rolls for supper. Come into the 
house. What are we standing here for?” 


With great fear, with a palpitating heart and 
trembling limbs, I crossed the threshold of the house 
that was to me a little Garden of Eden. 

My friend Pinna introduced me to his father. 

‘““Shalom—Nahum Veviks—a rich man’s boy. 
He wants to learn 40 play the fiddle.” 

Naphtali ‘Bezborodka’ twirled his earlocks, 
straightened his collar, buttoned up his coat, and 
started a long conversation with me, all about music 
and musical instruments in general and the fiddle in 
particular. He gave me to understand that the 
fiddle was the best and most beautiful of all in- 
struments. 1 8616 was none older and none more 
wonderful in the world than the fiddle. To prove 
this to me, he went on to tell me that the fiddle was 
always the leading instrument of any orchestra, 
and not the trumpet or the flute. And this was 
simply because the fiddle was the mother of all 
musical instruments. 

And so it came about that Naphtali ר‎ ERE 
gave me a whole lecture on music. Whilst he was 


217 


Jewish Children 


speaking he gesticulated with his hands and moved 
his nose, and | stood staring right into his mouth. 
I looked at his black teeth and swallowed, yes, 
positively swallowed, every word that he said. 

“The fiddle, you must understand,’ went on 
Naphtali “Bezborodka” to me, and evidently satis- 
fied with the lecture he was giving me, “the fiddle, 
you must understand, is an instrument that is older 
than all other instruments. The first man in the. 
world to play on the fiddle was Jubal-Cain, or 
Methuselah, 1 don’t exactly remember which. 
You will know that better than I, for, to be sure, 
you are learning Bible history at school. ‘The 
second fiddler in the world was King David. An- 
other great fiddler—the third greatest in the world 
—was Paganini. He also was a Jew. All the 
best fiddlers in the world were Jews. For instance 
there was ‘Stempenyu, and there was ‘Pedotchur! 
Of myself I say nothing. People tell me that I 
do not play the fiddle badly. But how can I come 
up to Paganini? ‘They say that Paganini sold his 
soul to the Ashmodai for a fiddle. Paganini hated 
to play before great people like kings and popes, 
although they covered him with gold. 1116 would 
much rather play at wayside inns for poor folks, 
or in villages. Or else he would play in the forest 
for wild beasts and fowls of the air. What a 
fiddler Paganini was! . . . 

‘Eh, boys, to your places! To your instru- 
ments !”’ 

That was the order which Naphtali “Bezborod- 
ka” gave to his regiment of children, all of whom 


218 


On the Fiddle 


came together in one minute. Each one took up an 
instrument. Naphtali himself stood up, beat his 
baton on the table, threw a sharp glance on every 
separate child and on all at once; and they began to 
play a concert on every sort of instrument with so 
much force that I was almost knocked off my feet. 
Each child tried to make more noise than the other. 
But above all, I was nearly deafened by the noise 
that one boy made, a little fellow who was called 
Hemalle. He was a dry little boy with a wet 
little nose, and dirty bare little feet. Hemalle 
played a curiously made instrument. It was a sort 
of sack which, when you blew it up, let out a mad 
screech—a peculiar sound like a yell of a cat after 
you have trodden on its tail. Hemalle beat time 
with his little bare foot. And all the while he kept 
looking at me out of his roguish little eyes, and wink- 
ing 60 106 asif he would say: ‘Well,isn’titso? I 
blow well—don’t I?’ But it was Naphtali himself 
who worked the hardest of all. Along with playing 
the fiddle, he led the orchestra, waved his hands 
about, shifted his feet, and moved his nose, and his 
eyes and his whole body. And if some one made a 
mistake—God forbid! he ground his teeth and 
shouted in anger: 

‘Forte, devil, forte! Fortissimo! Time, 
wretch, time! One, two, three! One, two, three!” 


Having arranged with Naphtali “Bezborodka’ 
that he should give me three lessons a week, of an 
hour and a half each day, for two “roubles” a 
month, 1 again and yet again begged of him that he 


219 


Jewish Children 


would keep my visits a secret of secrets; for if he did 
not, I would be lost forever. 116 promised me 
faithfully that not even a bird would hear of my 
coming and going. 

‘We are the sort of people,’ he said to me, 
proudly, fixing his collar in place, ‘“‘we are the sort 
of people who never have any money. But you 
will find more honour and justice in our house than 
in the house of the richest man. Maybe you have a 
few ‘groschens’ about you?” 

1 took out a “rouble” and gave it to him. 
Naphtali took it in the manner of a professor, with 
his two fingers. He called over ‘Mother Eve,” 
turned away his eyes, and said to her: 

“Here! (Buy something to eat.” 

“Mother Eve” took the “rouble’ from him, but 
with both hands and all her fingers, examined it 
on all sides, and asked her husband: 

‘What shall I buy?” 

‘What you like,” he answered, pretending not 
to care. “Buy a few rolls, two or three salt her- 
ring, and some dried sausage. And don’t forget 
an onion, vinegar and oil. Well, and a glass of 
brandy, say—”’ 

When all these things were brought home and 
placed upon the table, the family fell upon them 
with as much appetite as if they had just ended a 
long fast. I was actually tempted by an evil 
spirit; and when they asked me to take my place © 
at the table I could not refuse. 1 do not remember 
when I enjoyed a meal as much as I enjoyed the 
one at the musician’s house that day. 

220 


On the Fiddle 


After they had eaten everything, Naphtali winked 
to the children that they should take their instru- 
ments in their hands. And he treated me, ail 
Over again to a piece—‘his own composition.” 
This “composition” was played with so much ex- 
citement and force that my ears were deafened 
and my brain was stupefied. I left the house in- 
toxicated by Naphtali “Bezborodka’s’ ‘‘composi- 
tion.” The whole day at school, the teacher and 
the boys and the books were whirling round and 
round in front of my eyes. And my ears were ring- 
ing with the echoes 01 Naphtali’s ‘“‘composition.”’ 
At night I dreamt that I saw Paganini riding on the 
Ashmodai, and that he banged me over the head 
with his fiddle. 1 awoke with a scream, and 2 head- 
ache, and I began to pour out words as from a sack. 
What I said I do not know. But my older sister, 
Pessel, told me afterwards that I talked in heat, 
and that there was no connection between any two 
words I uttered. I repeated some fantastic names 
—‘‘Composition.” “Paganini,” etc. . . . And there 
was another thing my sister told me. During the 
time I was lying delirious, several messages were 
sent from Naphtali the Musician to know how I 
was. There came some barefoot boy who made 
many inquiries about me. 116 was driven off, and 
was told never to dare to come near the house 
oe 

“What was the musician’s boy doing here?” 
asked my sister. And she tormented me with ques- 
tions. She wanted me to tell her. But I kept 
repeating the same words: 


221 


Jewish Children 


“T donot know. AsI live, I donot know. How 
am I to know?” 

‘What does it look like?’ asked my mother. 
‘You are already a young man, a grown-up man 
—may no evil eye harm you! They will be soon 
looking for a bride for you, and you go about with 
fine friends, barefoot young musicians. What 
business have you with musicians? What was 
Naphtali the Musician’s boy doing here?” 

“What Naphtali?”’ I asked, pretending not to 
understand. “What musician?’ 

“Just look at him—the saint!” put in my father. 
'116 knows nothing about anything. Poor thing! 
His soul is innocent before the Lord! When I 
was your age I was already long betrothed. And 
he is still playing with strange boys. Dress your- 
self, and go off to school. And if you meet Hershel 
the Tax-collector, and he asks you what was the 
matter with you, you are to tell him that you had 
the ague. Do you hear what I am saying to you? 
The ague!”’ 

1 could not for the life of me understand what 
business Hershel the Tax-collector had with me. 
And for what reason was 1 to tell him I had been 
suffering from the 2806? . . . It was only a few 
weeks later that this riddle was solved for me. 


Hershel the Tax-collector was so called because 
he, and his grandfather before him, had collected 
the taxes of the town. It was the privilege of their 
family. He was a young man with a round little 
belly, and a red little beard, and moist little eyes, 
222 


On the Fiddle 


and he had a broad white forehead, a sure sign 
that he was a man of brains. And he had the 
reputation in our town of being a fine, young man, 
a modern, and a scholar. 116 had a sound knowl- 
edge of the Bible, and was a writer of distinction. 
That is to say, he had a beautiful hand. They say 
that his manuscripts were carried around and shown 
in the whole world. And along with these qualities, 
he had money, and he had one little daughter—an 
only child, a girl with red hair and moist eyes. 
She and her father, Hershel the Tax-collector, were 
as like as two drops of water. Her name was 
Esther, but she was called by the nickname of 
“Plesteril.”” She was nervous and genteel. She 
was as frightened of us, schoolboys, as of the 
Angel of Death, because we used to torment her. 
We used to tease her and sing little songs about her: 

“FE’stheril. 

‘Plesteril! 

“Why have you no little sister?” 

Well, after all, what is there in these words? 
Nothing, of course. Nevertheless, whenever 
“Plesteril’”’ heard them, she used to cover up her 
ears, run home crying, and hide herself away in the 
farthest of far corners. And, for several days, 
she was afraid to go out in the street. 

But that was once on a time, when she was still 
a child. Now she is a young woman, and is counted 
amongst the grown-ups. Her hair was tied up ina 
red plait, and she was dressed like a bride, in the 
latest fashions. My mother had a high opinion of 
her. She could never praise her enough, and called 

223 


Jewish Children 


her ‘‘a quiet dove.” Sometimes, on the Sabbath 
Esther came into our house, to see my sister Pessel. 
And when she saw me, she grew redder than ever, 
and dropped her eyes. At the same time, my sister 
Pessel would call me over to ask me something, and 
also to look into my eyes as she looked into Esther’s. 

And it came to pass that, on a certain day, there 
came into my school my father and Hershel the 1 24- 
collector. And after them came Shalom-Shachno 
the Matchmaker—a Jew who had six fingers, and 
a curly black beard, and who was terribly poor. 
Seeing such visitors, our teacher, “Reb” Zorach, 
pulled on his long coat, and put his hat on his head. 
And because of his great excitement, one of his 
earlocks got twisted up behind his ear. His hat 
got creased; and more than half of his little round 
cap was left sticking out at the back of his head, 
from under his hat; and one of his cheeks began 
to blaze. One could see that something extraor- 
dinary was going to happen. 

Of late, "267" Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker 
had started coming into the school a little too often. 
He always called the teacher outside, where they 
stood talking together for some minutes, whispering 
and getting excited. The matchmaker gesticulated 
with his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. He 
always finished up with a sigh, and said: 

“Well, it’s the same story again. If it is destined 
it will probably take place. How can we know 
anything—how ?”’ 

When the visitors came in, our teacher, “Reb’’ 
Zorach, did not know what to do, or where he was 
224. 


On the Fiddle 


to seat them. 116 took hold of the kitchen stool 
on which his wife: salted the meat, and first of all 
spun round and round with it several times, and 
went up and down the whole length of the room. 
After this, he barely managed to place the stool 
on the floor when he sat down on it himself. But 
he at once jumped up again, greatly confused; and 
he caught hold of the back pocket of his long coat, 
just as if he had lost a purse of money. 

‘‘Here is a stool. Sit down,” he said to his 
visitors. 

“Tt’s all right! Sit down, sit down,” said my 
father to him. ‘‘We have come in to you, ‘Reb’ 
Zorach, only for a minute. This gentleman wants 
to examine my son—to see what he knows of the 
Bible.” 

And my father pointed to Hershdl the Tax- 
collector. 

“Oh, by all means! Why not?” answered the 
teacher, “Reb”? Zorach. 116 took up a little Bible, 
and handed it to Hershel the Tax-collector. The 
expression on his face was as if he were saying: 
“Here it is for you, and do what you like.” 

Hershel the Tax-collector took the Bible in his 
hand like a man who knows thoroughly what he is 
doing. He twisted his little head to one side, 
closed one eye, turned and turned the pages, and 
gave me to, read the first chapter of the ‘‘Song of 
Songs.”’ 

“Ts it the ‘Song of Songs’?” asked my teacher, 
with 2 faint smile, as if he would say: “Could you 
find nothing more difficult?” 


225 


Jewish Children 
“The ‘Song of Songs,’ '' replied Hershel the Tax- 


collector. ‘“The ‘Song of Songs’ is not as easy 
as you imagine. One must undehstand the ‘Song of 
Songs.’’’ (Hershel could not pronounce the letter 
R but said H.) 

“Certainly,” put in Shalom-Shachno, with a little 
laugh. 

The teacher gave me a wink. I went over to 
the table, shook myself to and fro for a minute, 
and began to chant the ‘‘Song of Songs” to a beauti- 
ful melody, first introducing this commentary on 
if 

“The ‘Song of Songs’—a song above all songs! 
All other songs have been sung by prophets, but this 
‘Song’ has been sung by a prophet who was the son 
of a prophet. All other songs have been sung by 
men of wisdom, but this ‘Song’ has been sung by a 
man of wisdom who was the son of a man of wis- 
dom. All other songs have been sung by kings, but 
this ‘Song’ has been sung by a king who was the son 
of a king.” 

Whilst I was singing, I glanced quickly at my 
audience. iAnd on each face 1 could see a different 
expression. On my father’s face I could see pride 
and pleasure. On my teacher’s face were fear and 
anxiety, lest, God forbid! I should make a mistake, 
or commit errors in reading. His lips, in silence, 
repeated every word after me. Hershel the Tax- 
collector sat with his, head a little to one side, the 
ends of his yellow beard in his mouth, one little 
eye closed, the other staring up at the ceiling. He 
was listening with the air of a great, great judge. 
226 


On the Fiddle 


“Reb” Shalom-Shachno the Matchmaker never took 
his eyes off Hershel for a single minute. He sat 
with half his body leaning forward, shaking himself 
to and fro, as I did. And he could not restrain 
himself from interrupting me many times by 
an exclamation, a little laugh and a cough, all in 
one breath, as he waved his double-jointed finger 
in the air. 

‘When people say that he knows—then he 
knows!” 

A few days after this, plates were broken, and 
in a fortunate hour, I was betrothed to Hershel the 
Tax-collector’s only daughter, Plesteril. 


It sometimes happens that a man grows in one 
day more than anybody else grows in ten years. 
When I was betrothed, 1, all at once, began to feel 
that I was a “grown-up.” ‘Surely I was the same 
as before, and yet I was not the same. From my 
smallest comrade to my teacher ‘Reb’ Zorach, 
everybody now began to look upon me with more 
respect. After all, I was a bridegroom-elect, and 
had a watch. And my father also gave up shouting 
at me. Of smacks there is no need to say anything. 
How could any one take hold of a bridegroom-elect 
who had a gold watch, and smack his face for him? 
It would be a disgrace before the whole world, and 
a shame for one’s own self. It is true that it once 
_ happened that a bridegroom-elect named Eli was 

flogged at our school, because he had been caught 
sliding on the ice with the Gentile boys of the town. 
But for that again, the whole town made a fine 


227 


Jewish Children 


business of the flogging afterwards. When the 
scandal reached the ears of Eli’s betrothed, she 
cried so much until the marriage contract was sent 
back to the bridegroom-elect, to Eli, that is. And 
through grief and shame, he would have thrown 
himself into the river, but that the water was fro- 
RENO Me 

Nearly as bad a misfortune happened to me. 
But it was not because I got a flogging, and not be- 
cause I went sliding on the ice. It was because of 
a fiddle. 

And here is the story for you:— 

‘At our wineshop we had 2 frequent visitor, 
Tchitchick, the bandmaster, whom we used to call 
“Mr. Sergeant.” He was a tall, powerful man with 
a big round beard and terrifying eyebrows. And 
he talked a curiously mixed-up jargon composed of 
several languages. When he talked, he moved his 
eyebrows up and down. When he lowered his eye- 
brows, his face was black as night. When he 
raised them up, his face was bright as day. And 
this was because, under these same thick eyebrows 
he had a pair of kindly, smiling light blue eyes. He 
wore a uniform with gilt buttons, and that is why he 
was called at our place “Mr. Sergeant.”” He was 
a very frequent visitor at our wine-shop. Not be- 
cause he was a drunkard. God forbid! But for 
the simple reason that my father was very clever at 
making from raisins ‘‘the best and finest Hungarian 
wine.’ Tchitchick used to love this wine. 6 
never ceased from praising it. He used to put his 
228 


On the Fiddle 


big, terrifying hand on my father’s shoulder, and 
say to him: 

“Mr. Cellarer, you have the best Hungarian wine. 
There isn’t such wine in Buda Pesth, by God!” 

With me Tchitchick was always on the most inti- 
mate terms. 116 praised me for learning such a lot 
at school. 1016 often examined me to see if I knew 
who Adam was. And who was Isaac? And who 
was Joseph? 

“Yousef?” I asked him, in Yiddish. “Do you 
mean Yousef the Saint?” 

“Joseph,” he repeated. 

“Yousef,”’ I corrected him, once again. 

“With us it’s Joseph. With you it’s Youdsef,”’ 
he said to me, and pinched my cheek. ‘Joseph, 
Youdsef, Youdsef, Dsodsepf—what does it matter? 
It is all the same.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” 

I buried my face in my hands, and laughed 
heartily. 

But from the day I became a bridegroom-elect, 
Tchitchick gave up playing with me as if I were a 
clown; and he began to talk to me as if I were his 
equal. 116 told me stories of the regiment and of 
musicians. ‘Mr. Sergeant’? had a tremendous lot 
of talk in him. But no one else excepting myself 
had the time to listen to him. On one occasion he 
began to talk to me of playing. And I asked him: 

‘On which instrument does ‘Mr. Sergeant’ play?” 

“On all instruments,’ he answered, and raised 
his eyebrows at me. 


229 


Jewish Children 
“On the fiddle also?” I asked him. And all at 


once he took on, in my imagination, the face of an 
angel. 

“Come over to me some day,” he said, “and I 
will play for you.” 

‘When can I come to you, ‘Mr. Sergeant,’ if not 
on the Sabbath day?” I asked. “But I can only 
come on condition that no one knows anything 
about it. Can you promise me that?” 

““As I serve God!” he exclaimed, and lifted his 
eyebrows at me. 


Tchitchick lived far out of the town, in a little 
white house that had tiny windows and painted 
shutters. Leading up to it there was a big green 
garden from out of which peeped, proudly, a number 
of tall yellow sunflowers, as if they were something 
important. ‘They bent their heads a little to one 
side, and shook themselves to and fro. It seemed 
to me, they were calling out to me: “Come over 
here to us, boy! There is grass here! There is 
freedom here! ‘There is light here. It is fresh 
here! It is warm here! It is pleasant here!” 
. . . And after the stench and heat and dust of the 
town, and after the overcrowding, and the noise and 
the tumult of the school, one was indeed glad to get 
here. Because there is grass here; it is fresh here; 
it is bright here; it is warm here; it is pleasant here. 
One longs to run, leap, shout and sing. Or else one 
suddenly wants to throw oneself on the bare earth, 
to bury one’s face in the green, sweet-smelling grass. 
But, alas! this is not for you, Jewish children! 
230 


On the Fiddle 


Yellow sunflowers, green leaves, fresh air, pure 
earth, or a clear sky. Do not be offended, Jewish 
children, but all these have not grown up out of your 
rubbish! . . . 

I was met by a big, shaggy-haired dog with red, 
fiery eyes. 116 fell upon me with so much fierceness 
that the soul almost dropped out of my body. It 
was fortunate that he was tied up with a rope. On 
hearing my screams, [Tchitchick flew out, without 
his jacket, and began ordering the dog to be silent. 
And he was silent. Afterwards, Tchitchick took 
hold of my hand, led me straight to the black dog, 
and told me not to be afraid. He would not harm 
me. “Just try and pat him on the back,” said 
Tchitchick to me. And without waiting, he took 
hold of my hand and drew it all over the dog’s skin, 
at the same time calling him many curious names, 
and speaking kind words to him. 106 black 
villain lowered his head, wagged his tail, and licked 
himself with his tongue. 116 threw at me a glance 
of contempt, as if he would say: “It is lucky for 
you that my master is standing beside you, other- 
wise you would have gone from here without a 
hand.” 

I got over my terror of the dog. 1 entered the 
house with ' 111. Sergeant,” and I was struck dumb 
with astonishment. All the walls were covered with 
guns from top to bottom. And on the floor lay a 
skin with the head of a lion or a leopard. It had 
terribly sharp teeth. But the lion was only half 
an evil. After all, it was dead. But the guns— 
the guns! . . . 1 did not even care about the fresh 


231 


Jewish Children 


plums and the apples which the master of the house 
offered me out of his own garden. My eyes did 
not cease leaping from one wall to the other... . 
But later on, when Tchitchick took a little fiddle 
out of a red drawer—a beautiful, round little fiddle, 
with a curious little belly, let his big spreading 
beard droop over it, and held it with his big strong 
hands, and drew the bow across the strings a few 
times, backwards and forwards, I forgot, in the 
blinking of an eye, the black dog and the terrible 
lion, and the loaded guns. I only saw before me 
Tchitchick’s spreading beard and his black, lowered 
eyebrows. I only saw a round little fiddle with a 
curious little belly, and fingers which danced over 
the strings so rapidly that no human brain could 
answer the questions which arose to my mind: 
“Where does one get so many fingers?” 

Presently, Tchitchick and his spreading beard, 
vanished, along with his thick eyebrows and his 
wonderful fingers. And I saw nothing at all before 
me. 1 only heard a singing, a groaning, a weeping, 
a sobbing, a talking, and a growling. They were 
extraordinary, peculiar sounds that I heard, the 
like of which I had never heard before, in all my 
life. Sounds sweet as honey, and smooth as oil 
were pouring themselves right into my heart, with- 
out ceasing. And my soul went off somewhere far 
from the little house, into another world, into a 
Garden of Eden which was nothing else but beauti- 
ful sounds—which was one mass of singing, from 
beginning to end... . 

232 


On the Fiddle 


“Do you want some tea?” asked Tchitchick of 
me, putting down the little fiddle, and-slapping me 
on the shoulder. 

I felt as if I had fallen down from the seventh 
heaven on to the earth. 

From that day I visited Tchitchick regularly 
every Sabbath afternoon, to hear him playing the 
fiddle. 1 went straight to the house. 1 was afraid 
of no one; and I even became such good friends 
with the black dog that, when he saw me, he wagged 
his tail, and wanted to fall upon me to lick my 
hands. I would not let him do this. ‘‘Let us 
rather be good friends from the distance.” 

At home, not even a bird knew where I spent the 
Sabbath afternoons. I was a_bridegroom-elect, 
after all. ‘And no one would have known of my 
visits to [chitchick to this day, if a new misfortune 
had not befallen me—a great misfortune, of which 
I will now tell you. 


Surely it is no one’s affair if a Jewish young 
man goes for a walk on the Sabbath afternoon a 
little beyond the town? MHave people really got 
nothing better to do than to think of others and 
look after them to see where they are going? But 
of what use are such questions as these? It lies in 
our nature, in the Jewish nature, I mean, to look 
well after every one else, to criticize others and 
advise them. For example, a Jew will go over to 
his neighbour, at prayers, and straighten out the 
“Frontispiece” of his phylacteries. Or he will 


233 


Jewish Children 


stop his neighbour, who is running with the greatest 
haste and excitement, to tell him that the leg of his 
trouser is turned up. Or he will point his finger 
at his neighbour, so that the other shall not know 
what is amiss with him, whether it is his nose, or 
his beard, or what the deuce is wrong with him. 
Or a Jew will take a thing out of his neighbour’s 
hand, when the other is struggling to open it, and 
will say to him: “You don’t know how. Let 106. 
Or should he see his neighbour building a house, 
he will come over to look for a fault init. He says 
he believes the ceiling is too high, the rooms are too 
small, or the windows are awkwardly large. And 
there seems nothing else left the builder to do but 
scatter the house to pieces, and start it all over 
again. . . . We Jews have been distinguished by 
this habit of interfering from time immemorial— 
from the very first day on which the world was 
created. And you and I between us will never 
alter the world full of Jews. It is not our duty 
tovevenvattemptyity 2) 

After this long introduction, it will be easy for 
you to understand how Ephraim Log-of-wood—a 
Jew who was a black stranger to me, and who did 
not care a button for any of us—should poke his 
nose into my affairs. He sniffed and smelled my 
tracks, and found out where I went on Sabbath 
afternoons, and got me into trouble. He swore 
that he himself saw me eating forbidden food at 
the house of “Mr. Sergeant,” and that I was smok- 
ing a cigarette on the Sabbath. ‘‘May I see my- 
self enjoying all that is good!’ he cried. “If it is 


234 


On the Fiddle 


not as I say, may 1 never get to the place where I 
am going,” he said. ‘“Andif 1 am uttering the least 
word of falsehood, may my mouth be twisted to one 
side, and may my two eyes drop out of my head,” 
he added. 

‘Amen! May it be so,” I cried. 

And I caught from my father another smack 
in the face. 1 must not be insolent, he toldme. .. . 
_ But 1 imagine 1 am rushing along too quickly with 

my story. 1 am giving you the soup before the 

fish. I was forgetting entirely to tell you who 
Ephraim Log-of-wood was, and what he was, and 
how the incident happened. 

At the end of the town, on the other side of the 
bridge, there lived a Jew named Ephraim Log-of- 
wood. Why was he called Log-of-wood? Because 
he had once dealt in timber. And today he is 
not dealing in timber because something happened 
to him. 116 said it was libel, a false accusation. 
People found at his place a strange log of wood 
with a strange name branded on it. And he had a 
fine lot of trouble after that. He had a case, and 
he had appeals, and he had to send petitions. He 
Just managed to escape from being put into prison. 
From that time, he threw away all trading, and 
betook himself to looking after public matters. He 
pushed himself into all institutions, the tax-col- 
lecting, and the work done at the House of Learn- 
ing. Generally speaking, he was not so well off. 
He was often put to shame publicly. But as time 
went on, he insinuated himself into everybody’s 
bones. He gave people to understand that ‘He 


235 


Jewish Children 


knew where a door was opening.” And in the 
course of time, Ephraim became a useful person, a 
person it was hard to do without. That is how a 
worm manages to crawl into an apple. 116 makes 
himself comfortable, makes a soft bed for himself, 
makes himself a home, and in time becomes the 
real master of the house. 

In person, Ephraim was a tiny little man. He 
had short little legs, and small little hands, and red 
little cheeks, and a quick walk which was a sort of 
a little dance. And he tossed his little head about. 
His speech was rapid, and his voice squeaky. And 
he laughed with a curious little laugh which sounded 
like the rattling of dried peas. I could not bear to 
look at him, I don’t know why. ‘Every Sabbath 
afternoon, when I was going to Tchitchick’s, I used 
to meet Ephraim on the bridge, walking along, in a 
black, patched cloak, the sleeves of which hung 
loosely over his shoulders. His hands were folded 
in front of him, and he was singing in his thin little 
voice. And the ends of his long cloak kept dan- 
gling at his heels. 

‘A: good Sabbath,” 1 said to him. 

‘A good Sabbath,” he replied. ‘‘And where is 
a boy going?” 

‘Just for a walk,” I said. 

“For a walk? All alone?’’ he asked. And he 
looked straight into my eyes with such a little smile 
that it was hard to guess what he meant by it— 
whether he thought that it was very brave of me 
to be walking all alone or not. Was it, in his opin- 
ion, a wise thing to do, or a foolish? 


236 


On the Fiddle 


On one occasion, when I was going to Tchitchick’s 
house, I noticed that Ephraim Log-of-wood was 
looking at me very curiously. I stopped on the 
bridge and gazed into the water. Ephraim also 
stopped: on the bridge, and he also gazed into the 
water. 1 started to go back. He followed me. I 
turned round again, to go forward, and he also 
turned round in the same direction. A few minutes 
later, he was lost to me. When [ was sitting at 
Tchitchick’s table, drinking tea, we heard the black 
dog barking loudly at some one, and tearing at 
his rope. We looked out of the window, and I 
imagined I saw a low-sized, black figure with short 
little legs, running, running. ‘Then it disappeared 
from view. From his manner of running, I could 
have sworn the little creature was Ephraim Log-of- 
wood. 

And thus it came to pass— 

I came home late that Sabbath evening. It was 
already after the ‘‘Havdalah.’’ My face was 
burning. ‘And I found Ephraim Log-of-wood sit- 
ting at the table. 116 was talking very rapidly, 
and was laughing with his curious little laugh. 
When he saw me, he was silent. He started drum- 
ming on the table with his short little fingers. Op- 
posite him sat my father. 1115 face was death-like. 
He was pulling at his beard, tearing out the hairs 
. one by one. ‘This was a sure sign that he was in 
a temper. 

“Where have you come from?” my father asked 
of me and looked at Ephraim. 


237 


Jewish Children 


‘‘Where am 1 to come from?” said 1. 

‘Flow do I know where you are to come from?” 
said he. ‘‘You tell me where you have come from. 
You know better than 1." 

“From the House of Learning,” said I. 

‘And where were you the whole day?” said he. 

‘‘Where could 1 be?” said I. 

“Flow do I know?” said he. “You tell me. 
You know better than I.” 

‘At the House of Learning,” said I. 

‘What were you doing at the House of Learn- 
ing?” said he. 

“What should I be doing at the House of Learn- 
ing?’ said I. 

“Do I know what you could be doing there?” 
said he. 

“T was learning,’ said I. 

‘What were you learning?” said he. 

‘What should 1 learn?” said I. 

‘Do 1 know what you should learn?” said he. 

“T was learning ‘Gemarra,’”’ said I. 

‘What ‘Gemarra’ were you learning?” said he. 

“What ‘Gemarra’ should I learn?” said I. 

‘Do I know what ‘Gemarra@ you should learn?” 
said he. 

learnt the ‘“Gemarra,’ ‘Shabos,’”’ said I.‏ דיי 

At this Ephraim Log-of-wood burst out laughing 
in his rattling little laugh. And it seemed that 
my father could bear no more. 116 jumped up 
from his seat and delivered me two resounding 
fiery boxes on the ears. Stars flew before my eyes. 


238 


On the Fiddle 


My mother heard my shouts from the other room. 
She flew into us with a scream. 

‘Nahum! The Lord be with you! What are 
you doing? A young man—a bridegroom-elect! 
Just before his wedding! Bethink yourself! If 
her father ap to know of this—God forbid!” 


My א‎ was ewe The sas fale: got to 
know the whole story. Ephraim Log-of-wood 
went off himself and told it to him. And in this way 
Ephraim had his revenge of Hershel the Tax-col- 
lector; for the two had always been at the point 
of sticking knives into one another. 


=. 


Next day I got back the marriage-contract and 
the presents which had been given to the bride-elect. 
And I was no longer a bridegroom-elect. 

This grieved my father so deeply that he fell 
into a very serious illness. He was bedridden for 
along time. He would not let me come near him. 
He refused to look into my face. All my mother’s 
tears and arguments and explanations and her de- 
fence of me were of no use at all. 

‘The disgrace,’ said my father, ‘“‘the disgrace 
of it is worse than anything else.”’ 

“May it turn out to be a real, true sacrifice for us 
all,’ said my mother to him. “The Lord will 
have to send us another bride-elect. What can we 
460? Shall we take our own lives? Perhaps it is 
not his destiny to marry this girl.” 


239 


Jewish Children 


Amongst those who came to visit my father in 
his illness was Tchitchick the bandmaster. | 
When my father saw him, he took off his little 
round cap, sat up in his bed, stretched out his hand 

to him, looked straight into his eyes and said: 

(Oh, SMri Sergeant? זא"‎ Sergeant?’ 7 

He could not utter another sound, because! he 
was smothered by his tears and his cough... . 

This was the first time in my life that I saw my 
father crying. ‘His tears gripped hold of my 
heart, and chilled me to the very soul. 

I stood and looked out of the window, swallowing 
my tears in silence. At that moment, 1 was heartily 
sorry for all the mischief I had done. I cried 
within myself, from the very depths of my heart, 
beating my breast: “I have sinned.’’ And within 
myself, I vowed solemnly to myself that I would. 
never, never anger my father again, and never, 
never cause him any pain. 


No more fiddle! 


240 


This Night 


‘““To MY DEAR SON, 

“TI send you—‘rouwbles, and beg of you, my dear son, to 
do me the favour, and come home for the Passover Festival. 
It is a disgrace to me in my old age. We have one son, an 
only child, and we are not worthy to see him. Your mother 
also asks me to beg of you to be sure to come home for the 
Passover. And you must know that Busie is to be con- 
gratulated. She is now betrothed. And if the Lord wills 


it, she is going to be married on the Sabbath after the Feast 
of Weeks. 


“From me, 
“YOUR FATHER.” 

This is the letter my father wrote to me. For 
the first time a sharp letter—for the first time in 
all those years since we had parted. And we had 
parted from one another, father and I, in silence, 
without quarrelling. 1 had acted in opposition to 
his wishes. I would not go his road, but my own 
road. 1 went abroad to study. At first my father 
was angry. 116 said he would never forgive me. 
Later, he began to send me money. 

“IT send you—‘roubles,’”’ he used to write, ‘‘and 
your mother sends you her heartiest greetings.” 

Short, dry letters he wrote me. And my replies 
to him were also short and dry: 

‘“T have received your letter with the—‘roubles.’ 


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Jewish Children 


I thank you, and I send my mother my heartiest 
greetings.” 

Cold, terribly cold were our letters to one an- 
other. Who had time to realize where I found 
myself in the world of dreams in which I lived? 
But now my father’s letter woke me up. Not so 
much his complaint that it was a shame I should 
have left him alone in his old age—that it was a 
disgrace for him that his only son should be away 
from him. I will confess it that this did not move 
me so much. Neither did my mother’s pleadings 
with me that I should have pity on her and come 
home for the Passover Festival. Nothing took 
such a strong hold of me as the last few lines of 
my father’s letter. ‘“‘And you must know that 
Busie is to be congratulated.” 

Busie! The same Busie who has no equal any- 
where on earth, excepting in the “Song of Songs’ — 
the same Busie who is bound up with my life, 
whose childhood is interwoven closely with my child- 
hood—the same Busie who always was to me the 
bewitched Queen’s Daughter of all my wonderful 
fairy tales—the most wonderful princess of my 
golden dreams—this same Busie is now betrothed, 
is going to be married on the Sabbath after the 
Feast of Weeks? Is it true that she is going to be 
married, and not to me, but to some one else? 


Who is Busie—what is she? Oh, do you not 
know who Busie is? Have you forgotten? Then 
I will tell you her biography all over again, briefly, 
242 


This Night 


and in the very same words 1 used when telling it 
you once on a time, years ago. 

I had an older brother, Benny. He was 
drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young 
widow, two horses, and one child. The mill was 
neglected; the horses were sold; the young widow 
married again and went away somewhere, far; and 
the child was brought home to our house. 

That child was Busie. 

And Busie was beautiful as the lovely Shulamite 
of the “Song of Songs.’’ Whenever I saw Busie 
I thought of the Shulamite of the “Song of Songs.” 
And whenever I read the “Song of Songs” Busie’s 
image came up and stood before me. 

Her name is the short for Esther-Liba: Libusa: 
Busie. She grew up together with me. She called 
my father ‘‘father,” and my mother ‘‘mother.”’ 
Everybody thought that we were sister and brother. 
And we grew up together as if we were sister and 
brother. And we loved one another as if we were 
sister and brother. 

Like a; sister and a brother we played together, 
and we hid in a corner—we two; and I used to tell 
her the fairy tales I learnt at school—the tales 
which were told me by my comrade Sheika, who 
knew everything, even “Kaballa.’ 1 told her that 
by means of “Kaballa,” I could do wonderful tricks 
—draw wine from a stone, and gold, from a wall. 
By means of “Kaballa,” I told her, I could manage 
that we two should rise up into the clouds, and even 
higher than the clouds. Oh, how she loved to 


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Jewish Children 


hear me tell my stories! There was only one story 
which Busie did not like me to tell—the story of 
the Queen’s Daughter, the princess who had been 
bewitched, carried off from under the wedding 
canopy, and put into a palace of crystal for seven 
years. And 1 said that I was flying off to set her 
free. . . . Busie loved to hear every tale except- 
ing that one about the bewitched Queen’s Daughter 
whom I was flying off to set free. 

“You need not fly so far. Take'my advice, you 
need not.”’ 

This is what Busie said to me, fixing on my face 
her beautiful blue “Song of Songs”’ eyes. 

That is who and what Busie is. 

And now my father writes me that I must con- 
eratulate Busie. She is betrothed, and will be mar- 
ried on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks. She 
is some one’s bride—some one else’s, not mine! 

I sat down and wrote a letter to my father, in 
answer to his. 


““TO MY HONOURED AND DEAR FATHER, 

“T have received your letter with the—‘roubles.’ In 
a few days, as soon as I am ready, I will go home, in time 
for the first days of the Passover Festival—or perhaps for the 
latter days. But I will surely come home. I send my 
heartiest greetings to my mother. And to Busie I send my 
congratulations. I wish her joy and happiness. 

“From me, 
“Your Son.” 


It was a lie. I had nothing to get ready; nor 
was there any need for me to wait a few days. 
The same day on which I received my father’s letter 


244 


This Night 
and answered it, I got on the train and flew home. 
I arrived home exactly on the day before the Fes- 
tival, on a warm, bright Passover eve. 

I found the village exactly as I had left it, once 
on a time, years ago. It was not changed by a 
single hair. Not a detail of it was different. It 
was the same village. ‘The people were the same. 
The Passover eve was the same, with all its noise 
and hurry and flurry and bustle. And out of doors 
it was also the same Passover eve as when I had 
been at home, years ago. 

There was only one thing missing—the ‘Song 
of Songs.” No; nothing of the “Song of Songs” 
existed any longer. It was not now as it had 
been, once on a time, years ago. Our yard was not 
any more King Solomon’s vineyard, of the ‘Song 
of Songs.”” The wood and the logs and the boards 
that lay scattered around the house were no longer 
the cedars and the fir trees. The cat that was 
stretched out before the door, warming herself in 
the sun, was no more a young hart, or a roe, such 
as one comes upon in the “Song of Songs.”’ ‘The 
hill on the other side of the synagogue was no more 
the Mountain of Lebanon. It was no more one 
of the Mountains of Spices. . . . The young women 
and girls who were standing out of doors, wash- 
ing and scrubbing and making everything clean for 
the Passover—they were not any more the 
Daughters of Jerusalem of whom mention is made 
in the “Song of Songs.” . . . What has become of 
my “Song of Songs” world that was, at one time, 


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Jewish Children 


so fresh and clear and bright—the world that was 
as fragrant as though filled with spices? 


I found my home exactly as I had left 16 years 
before. It was not altered by a hair. It was not 
different in the least detail. My father, too, was 
the same. Only his silvery-white beard had be- 
come a little more silvery. His broad white 
wrinkled forehead was now a little more wrinkled. 
This was probably because of his cares... . 
And my mother was the same as when I| saw her 
last. Only her ruddy cheeks were now slightly sal- 
low. And I imagined she had grown smaller, 
shorter and thinner. Perhaps I only imagined this 
because she was now slightly bent. And her eyes 
were slightly enflamed, and had little puffy bags un- 
der them, as if they were swollen. Was it from 
weeping, perhaps? ... 

For what reason had my mother been weeping? 
For whom? Was it for me, her only son who had 
acted in opposition to his father’s wishes? Was 
it because I would not go the same road as my 
father, but took my own road, and went off to study, 
and did not come home for such a long time? .. . 
Or did my mother weep for Busie, because she was 
getting married on the Sabbath after the Feast of 
Weeks? 

Ah, Busie! She was not changed by so much as 
a hair. She was not different in the least detail. 
She had only grown up—grown up and also grown 
more beautiful than she had been, more lovely. 
586 had grown up exactly as she had promised to 
246 


This Night 


grow, tall and slender, and ripe, and full of grace. 
Her eyes were the same blue “Song of 5009 eyes, 
but more thoughtful than in the olden times. They 
were more thoughtful and more dreamy, more care- 
worn and more beautiful “Song of Songs” eyes than 
ever. And the smile on her lips was friendly, loving 
homely and affectionate. She was quiet as a dove 
—quiet as a virgin. 

When I looked at the Busie of today, I was re- 
minded of the Busie of the past. I recalled to 
mind Busie in her new little holiday frock which my 
mother had made for her, at that time, for the 
Passover. 1 remembered the new little shoes 
which my father had bought for her, at that time, 
for the Passover. And when I remembered the 
Busie of the past, there came back to me, without 
an effort on my part, all over again, phrase by 
phrase, and chapter by chapter, the long-forgotten 
“Song of Songs.” 

‘Thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks: thy hair 
is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount 
Gilead. 

‘Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even 
shorn, which come up from the washing: whereof 
every one bear twins, and none is barren among 
them. 

“Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy 
speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of 
pomegranate within thy locks.” 

I look at Busie, and once again everything is as 
in the ‘‘Song of Songs,’ just as it was in the past, 
once on a time, years before. 


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Jewish Children 


‘‘Busie, am I to congratulate you?” 

She does not hear me. But why does she lower 
her eyes? And why have her cheeks turned 
scarlet? No, I must bid her joy—I must! 

“T congratulate you, Busie.” 

‘(May you live in happiness,” she replies. 

And that is all. 1 could ask her nothing. And 
to talk with her? ‘There was nowhere where | 
might do that. My father would not let me talk 
with her. My mother hindered me. Our relatives 
prevented it. The rest of the family, the friends, 
neighbours and acquaintances who flocked into the 
house to welcome me, one coming and one going— 
they would not let me talk with Busie either. They 
all stood around me. (They all examined me, as 
if { were a bear, or a curious creature from another 
world. Everybody wanted to see and hear me—to 
know how I was getting on, and what I was doing. 
They had not seen me for such a long time. 

‘Tell us something new. What have you seen? 
What have you heard?” 

And I told them the news—all that I had seen 
and all that 1 had heard. At the same time I was 
looking at Busie. I was searching for her eyes. 
And I met her eyes—her big, deep careworn, 
thoughtful, beautiful blue ‘‘ Song of Songs” eyes. 
But her eyes were dumb, and she herself was dumb. 
Her eyes told me nothing—nothing at all. And 
there arose to my memory the words I had 
learnt in the past, the ‘Song of Songs” sentence by 
sentence— 


248 


’ 


This Night 


‘‘A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a 
spring shut up, a fountain sealed.” 


And a storm arose within my brain, and a fire 
began to burn within my heart. This terrible fire 
did not rage against anybody, only against my- 
self—against myself and against my dreams of the 
past—the foolish, boyish, golden dreams for the 
sake of which I had left my father and my mother. 
Because of those dreams I had forgotten Busie. 
Because of them I had sacrificed a great, great part 
of my life; and because of them, and through them 
I had lost my happiness—lost it, lost it for ever! 

Lost it for ever? No, it cannot be—it cannot 
be! Have I not come back—have I not returned 
in good time? . . . If only I could manage to talk 
with Busie, all alone with her! If only I could 
get to say a few words to her. But how could I 
speak with her, all alone, the few words I longed 
to speak, when everybody was present—when the 
people were all crowding around me? They were 
all examining me as if I were a bear, or a curious 
creature from another world. Everybody wanted 
to see and hear me—to know how I was getting on, 
and what I was doing. They had not seen me for 
such a long time! 

More intently than any one else was my father 
listening to me. He had a Holy Book open in 
_ front of him, as always. 1115 broad forehead was 
wrinkled up, as always. 116 was looking at me from 
over his silver spectacles, and was stroking the silver 
strands of his silvery-white beard, as always. And 


249 


Jewish Children 


I imagined that he was looking at me with other eyes 
than he used to look. No, it was not the same look 
as always. 116 029 reproaching me. I felt that my 
father was offended with me. 1 had acted contrary 
to his wishes. I had refused to go his road, and 
had taken 2 road of my own choosing. . - . 

My mother, too, was standing close behind me. 
She came out of the kitchen. She left all her work, 
the preparations for the Passover, and she was listen- 
ing to me with tears in her eyes. ‘Though her face 
was still smiling, she wiped her eyes in secret with 
the corners of her apron. She was listening to me 
attentively. She was staring right into my mouth; 
and she was swallowing, yes, swallowing every word 
that 1 said. 

And Busie also stood over against me. Her 
hands were folded on her bosom. ‘And she was 
listening to me just as the others were. Along 
with them, she was staring right into my mouth. I 
looked at Busie. I tried to read what was in her 
eyes; but I could read nothing there, nothing at all, 
nothing at all. | 

‘Tell more. Why have you grown silent?” my 
father asked me. . 

“Leave him alone. Did you ever see the like?” 
put in my mother hastily. ‘The childis tired. The 
child is hungry, and he goes on saying to him: 
Der er ello” De Oa 0 ca 


The יי שי‎ to go away 0 אק‎ And. 
we found ourselves alone, my father and my mother, 
Busie and I. My mother went off to the kitchen. 
250 


This Night 


In a few minutes she came back, carrying in her 

hand a beautiful Passover plate—a plate 1 knew 

well. It was surrounded by a design of big green 
fig leaves. 

“Perhaps you would like something to eat, 

Shemak? 16 is a long time to wait until the 

‘Seder.’ 7 | 

That is what my mother said to me, and with so 
much affection, so much loyalty and so much passion- 
ate devotion. And Busie got up, and with silent 
footfalls, brought me a knife and fork—the well- 
known Passover knife and fork. Everything was 
familiar tome. Nothing was changed, nor different 
by a hair. It was the same plate with the big green 
fig leaves; the same knife and fork with the white 
bone handles. ‘The same delicious.odour of melted 
goose-fat came in to me from the kitchen; and the 
fresh Passover cake had the same, Garden-of-Eden 
taste. Nothing was changed by a hair. Nothing 
was different in the least detail. 

Only, in the olden times, we ate together on the 
Passover eve, Busie and I, off the same plate. I 
remember that we ate off the same beautiful Pass- 
over plate that was surrounded by a design of big 
green fig leaves. And, at that time, my mother gave 
us nuts. 1 remember how she filled our pockets with 
nuts. And, at that time, we took hold of one an- 
other’s hands, Busie and I. And I remember that 


we let ourselves go, in the open. We flew like 


eagles. Jran;she ran after me. I leaped over the 
logs of wood; she leaped after me. I was up; she 
was up. I was down; she was down. 


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Jewish Children 


“Shemak! How long are we going to run, 
Shemak ?” 

So said Busie to me. And I answered her in the 
words of the “Song of Songs’: “Until the day 
break, and the shadows flee away.” 


This was once on a time, years ago. Now Busie 
is grownup. Sheis big. And 1 also am grown up. 
1 2150 גתג‎ 212. Busieis betrothed. She is betrothed 
to some one—to some one else, and not 40 me... . 
And I want to be alone with Busie. I want to speak 
a few words with her. I want to hear her voice. 
I want to say to her, in the words of the ‘Song of 
Songs’: ‘Let me see thy countenance, let me hear 
thy voice.” 

And I imagine that her eyes are answering my 
unspoken words, also in the words of the ‘Song of 
Songs.” “Come, my beloved, let us go forth into 
the fields; let us lodge in the villages. 

' 66 us get up early to the vineyards; let us see 
if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, 
and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give 
thee my loves.”’ 

I snatched a glimpse seinen the window to see 
what was going on out of doors. Ah, how lovely 
it was! How beautiful! How frig cant of the 
Passover! How like the “Song of Songs”! It was 
a sin to be indoors. Soon the day would be at an 
end. Lower and lower sank the sun, painting the 
sky the colour of guinea-gold. The gold was re- 
flected in Busie’s eyes. ‘They were bathed in gold. 
Soon, soon, the day would be dead. And I would 
252 


This Night 


have no time to say a single word to Busie. The 
whole day was spent in talking idly with my father 
and my mother, my relatives and friends, telling them 
of all that I had heard, and all that I had seen. I 
jumped up, and went over to the window. I looked 
out of it. As I was passing her, I said quickly 
to Busie: 

‘Perhaps we should go out for a while? It is 
so long since I was at home. 1 want to see every- 
thing. I want to have a look at the village.” 


Can you tell me what was the matter with Busie? 
Her cheeks were at once enflamed. ‘They burned 
with a great fire. She was as red as the sun that 
was going down in the west. She threw a glance at 
my father. I imagined she wanted to hear what my 
father would say. And my father looked at my 
mother, over his silver spectacles. He stroked the 
silver strands of his silvery-white beard, and said 
casually, to no one in particular: 

‘The sun is setting. It’s time to put on our Fes- 
tival garments, and to go into the synagogue to pray. 
It is time to light the Festival candles. What do 
you say?” 

No! It seemed that I was not going to get the 
chance of saying anything to Busie that day. We 
went off to change our garments. My mother had 
finished her work. She had put on her new silk 
‘Passover gown. 1164 white hands gleamed. No 
one has such beautiful white hands as my mother. 
Soon she will make the blessing over the Festival 
candles. She will cover her eyes with her snow- 


253 


Jewish Children 


white hands and weep silently, as she used to do 
once on a time, years ago. ‘The last lingering rays 
of the setting sun will play on her beautiful, trans- 
parent white hands. No one has such beautiful, 
white transparent hands as my mother. 

But what is the matter with Busie? ‘The light 
has gone out’ of her face just as it is going out of 
the sun that is slowly setting in the west, and as it 
is going out of the day that is slowly dying. But 
she is beautiful, and graceful as never before. And 
there is a deep sadness in her beautiful blue “Song 
of Songs” eyes. They are very thoughtful, are 
Busie’s eyes. 3 

What is Busie thinking of now? Of the loving 
guest for whom she had waited, and who had come 
flying home so unexpectedly, after a long, long ab- 
sence from home? . . . Or is she thinking of her 
mother, who married again, and went off somewhere 
far, and who forgot that she had a daughter whose 
name was Busie?... Or is Busie now thinking 
of her betrothed, her afhanced husband whom, 
probably, my father and mother were compelling 
her to marry against her own inclinations? . . . Or 
is she thinking of her marriage that is going to take 
place on the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks, to 
a man she does not know, and does not understand? 
Who is he, and what is he? . . . Or, perhaps, on 
the contrary, [ am mistaken? Perhaps she is count- 
ing the days from the Passover to the Feast of 
Weeks, until the Sabbath after the Feast of Weeks, 


because the man she is going to marry on that day 


254 


This Night 


is her chosen, her dearest, her beloved? He will 
lead her under the wedding canopy. To him she 
will give all her heart, and 211 her love. And to me? 
Alas! Woe is me! To me she is no more than a 
sister. She always was to me a sister, and always 
will be. . . . And I imagine that she is looking at 
me with pity and with regret, and that she is saying 
to me, as she said to me, once on a time, years ago, 
in the words of the ‘‘Song of Songs:” 

“O that thou wert as my brother.” 

“Why are you not my brother ? 

What answer can I make her to these unspoken 
words? 1 know what I should like to say to her. 
Only let me get the chance to say a few words to 
her, no more than a few. 

No! 1 shall not be able to speak a single word 
with Busie this day—nor even half a word. Now 
she is rising fromher chair. She is going with light, 
soft footfalls to the cupboard. She is getting the 
candles ready for my mother, fixing them into the 
silver candlesticks. How well I know these silver 
candlesticks! ‘They played a big part in my golden, 
boyish dreams of the bewitched Queen’s Daughter 
whom I was going to rescue from the palace of 
crystal. 1206 golden dreams, and the silver candle- 
sticks, and the Sabbath candles, and my mother’s 
beautiful, white transparent hands, and Busie’s beau- 
tiful blue ‘Song of Songs” eyes, and the last rays of 


the sun that is going down in the west—are they 


not all one and the same, bound together and inter- 
woven for ever? . . . 


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Jewish Children 


“Tal”? exclaimed my father, looking out of the 
window, and winking to me that it was high time 
to change and go into the synagogue to pray. 

And we changed our garments, my father and I, 
and we went into the synagogue to say our prayers. 


Our synagogue, our old, old synagogue was not 
changed either, not by so much as a hair. Not a 
single detail was different. Only the walls had be- 
come a little blacker; the reader’s desk was older; 
the curtain before the Holy Ark had drooped lower; 
and the Holy Ark itself had lost its polish, its new- 
ness. 

Once on a time, our synagogue had appeared in 
my eyes like a small copy of King Solomon’s Temple. 
Now the small temple was leaning slightly to one 
side. Ah, what has become of the brilliance, and 
the holy splendour of our little old synagogue? 
Where now are the angels which used to flutter 
about, under the carved wings of the Holy Ark 
on Friday evenings, when we were reciting the 
prayers in welcome of the Sabbath, and on Festival 
evenings when we were reciting the beautiful Festi- 
val prayers? 

4400 the members of the congregation were also 
very little changed. They were only grown a little 
older. Black beards were now grey. Straight 
shoulders were stooped a little. The satin holiday 
coats that I knew so well were more threadbare, 
shabbier. White threads were to be seen in them 
and yellow stripes. Melech the Cantor sang as 
beautifully as in the olden times, years ago. Only 


256 


This Night 
today his voice is a little husky, and a new tone is to 
be heard in the old prayers he is chanting. He 
weeps rather than sings the words. He mourns 
rather than prays. Andourrabbi? The old rabbi? 
He has not changed at all. He was like the 
fallen snow when 1 saw him last, and today is like 
the fallen snow. He is different only in one trifling 
respect. 1119 hands are trembling. And the rest 
of his body is also trembling, from old age, I should 
imagine. Asreal the Beadle—a Jew who had never 
had the least sign of a beard—would have been 
exactly the same man as once on a time, years before, 
if it were not for his teeth. He has lost every single 
tooth he possessed; and with his fallen-in cheeks, he 
now looks much more like a woman than a man. 
But for all that, he can still bang on the desk with 
his open hand. True, it is not the same bang as 
once on a time. Years ago, one was almost deaf- 
ened by the noise of Asreal’s hand coming down on 
the desk. ‘Today, it is not like that at all. It seems 
that he has not any longer the strength he used to 
have. 116 was once 2 giant of 2 man. 

Once on a time, years ago, I was happy in the 
little old synagogue; I remember that I felt happy 
without an end—without a limit! Here, in the little 
synagogue, years ago, my childish soul swept about 
with the angels I imagined were flying around the 
carved wings of the Holy Ark. Here, in the little 


_ synagogue, once on a time, with my father and all 


the other Jews, I prayed earnestly. And it gave 
me great pleasure, great satisfaction. 


2.57 


Jewish Children 


And now, here I am again in the same old syna- 
vogue, praying with the same old congregation, just 
as once on a time, years ago. I hear the same Can- 
tor singing the same melodies as before. And I 
am praying along with the congregation. But my 
thoughts are far from the prayers. I keep turning 
over the pages of my prayer-book idly, one page 
after the other. And—TI am not to blame for it—l 
come upon the pages on which are printed the “Song 
of Songs.” And I read: 

“Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou are 
fair; thou hast dove’s eyes within thy locks.” 

I should like to pray with the congregation, as 
they are praying, and as 1 used to pray, once on a 
time. But the words will not rise to my lips. I 
turn over the pages of my prayer-book, one after 
the other, and—I am not to blame for it—again I 
turn up the ‘‘Song of Songs,” at the fifth chapter. 

"1 am come into my garden, my sister, my 
spouse.” 

And again: 

‘T have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have 
eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk 
my wine with my milk.” 

But what am 1 talking about? What am J say- 
ing? The garden is not mine. I shall not gather 
any myrrh, nor smell any spices. I shall eat no 
honey, and drink no wine. ‘The garden is not my 
garden. Busie is not my betrothed. Busie is be- 
trothed to some one else—to some one else, and 
not tome. . . . And there rages within me a hellish 
fire. ‘Not against Busie. Not against anybody at 
all. No; only against myself alone. Surely! 
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This Night 


How could I have stayed away from Busie for such 
a long time? How could 1 have allowed it—that 
Busie should be taken away from me, and given to 
some one else? 1124 she not written many letters 
to me, often, and given me to understand that she 
hoped to see me shortly? . . . Had 1 not myself 
promised to come home, and then put off going, from 
one Festival to another, so many times until, at last, 
Busie gave up writing to me? 


“Good ‘Yom-Tov’! This is my son!” 

_ That was how my father introduced me to the men 
of the congregation at the synagogue, after prayers. 
They examined me on all sides. They greeted me 
with, “Peace be unto you!” and accepted my greet- 
ing, in return, ‘Unto you be peace!” as if it were 
no more than their due. 

rhis is: my son. 2 7 י‎ 

‘That is your son? Here is a ‘Peace. be unto 
you !'"' 

In my father’s words, 1015 is my son,’ there 
were many shades of feeling, many meanings—joy, 
and happiness, and reproach. One might interpret 
the words as one liked. One might argue that he 
meant to say: 

“What do you think? This is really my son.” 

Or one might argue that he meant to say: 

“Just imagine it—this is my son!” 

I could feel for my father. He was deeply hurt. 
1 had opposed his wishes. 1 had not gone his road, 
but had taken a road of my own. And I had caused 
him to grow old before his time. No; he had not 


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Jewish Children 


forgiven me yet. He did not tell me this. But his 
manner saved him the trouble of explaining himself. 
I felt that he had not forgiven me yet. 1115 eyes 
told me everything. ‘They looked at me reproach- 
fully from over his silver-rimmed spectacles, right 
into my heart. His soft sigh told me that he had 
not forgiven me yet—the sigh which tore itself, from 
time to time, out of his weak old breast. . . . 

We walked home from the synagogue together, 
in silence. We got home later than any one else. 
The night had already spread her wings over the 
heavens. Her shadow was slowly lowering itself 
over the earth. A silent, warm, holy Passover night 
it was—a night full of secrets and mysteries, full of 
wonder and beauty. The holiness of this night could 
be felt in the air. It descended slowly from the 
dark blue sky. . . . The stars whispered together 
in the mysterious voices of the night. And on all 
sides of us, from the little Jewish houses came the 
words of the “Haggadah’: ‘‘We went forth from 
Egypt on this night.” 

With hasty, hasty steps I went towards home, on 
this night. And my father barely managed to keep 
up with me. 116 followed after me like a shadow. 

‘““Why are you flying?’ he asked of me, scarcely 
managing to catch his breath. 

Ah, father, father! Do you not know that I have 
been compared with “a roe or a young hart upon 
the mountains of spices”? . . . The time is long for 
me, father, too long. The way is long for me, 
father, too long. When Busie is betrothed to some 
one—to some one else and not to me, the hours and 
260 


This Night 


the roads are too long for me. . . . I am compared 
with ‘‘a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of 
spices.” 


That is what I wanted to say to my father, in the 
words of the “Song of Songs.” 1 did not feel the 
ground under my feet. 1 went towards home with 
hasty, hasty steps, on this night. My father barely 
managed to keep up with me. He followed after 
me like a shadow. 


With the same “Good ‘Yom-!'ov’ ” which we had 
said on coming in from the synagogue on such a 
night as this, years ago, we entered the house on 
this night, my father and I. 

With the same ‘‘Good ‘Yom-Tov, good year,” 
with which my mother and Busie used to welcome 
us, on such a night as this, once on a time, years ago, 
they again welcomed us on this night, my father 
and me. 

My mother, the Queen of the evening, was dressed 
in her royal robes of silk; and the Queen’s Daughter, 
Busie, was dressed in her snow-white frock. They 
made the same picture which they had made, once 
on a time, years ago. ‘They were not altered by as 
much asa hair. They were not different in a single 
detail. 

As it had been years ago, soit was now. On this 
night, the house was full of grace. A peculiar 
beauty—a holy, festive, majestic loveliness descended 


upon our house. A holy, festive glamour hung 


about our house on this night. The white table- 
cloth was like driven snow. And everything which 


261 


Jewish Children 


was on the table gleamed and glistened. My 
mother’s Festival candles shone out of the silver 
candlesticks. The Passover wine greeted us from 
out the sparkling bottles. Ah, how pure, how sim- 
ple the Passover cakes looked, peeping innocently 
from under their beautiful cover! How sweetly the 
horse-radish smiled to me! And how pleasant was 
the “mortar’’—the mixture of crushed nuts and 
apples and wine which symbolized the mortar out of 
which the Israelites made bricks in Egypt, when they 
were slaves! And even the dish of salt-water was 
good to. look upon. 

Proudly and haughtily stood the throne on which 
my father, the King of the night, was going to re- 
cline. A glory shone forth from my mother’s coun- 
tenance, such as 1 always saw shining forth from it 
on such a night. And the Queen’s Daughter, Busie, 
was entirely, from her head to her heels, as if she 
really belonged to the “Song of Songs.’ No! 
What am I saying? She was the “Song of Songs” 
itself. : 

The only pity was that the King’s son was put sit- 
ting so far away from the Queen’s Daughter. I re- 
member that they once sat at the Passover ceremony 
in a different position. They were together, once 
on a time, years ago. One beside the other they 
PA ha א‎ 

I remember that the King’s Son asked his father 
“The Four Questions.’’ And I remember that the 
Queen’s Daughter stole from his Majesty the 
“A fikomen’— the pieces of Passover cake he had 
262 


i 
5 


| This Night 
hidden away to make the special blessing over. 
And 1? What had I done then? How much did 
we laugh at that time! I remember that, once on 
a time, years ago, when the “Seder” was ended, 
the Queen had taken off her royal garment of silk, 
and the King had taken off his white robes, and 
we two, Busie and I, sat together in a corner play- 
ing with the nuts which my mother had given us. 
And there, in the corner, I told Busie a story— 
one of the fairy tales I had learnt at school from 
my comrade Sheika, who knew everything in the 
world. It was the story of the beautiful Queen’s 
Daughter who had been taken from under the wed- 
ding canopy, bewitched, and put into a palace of 
crystal for seven years on end, and who was wait- 
ing for some one to raise himself up into the air by 
pronouncing the Holy Name, flying above the clouds, 
across hills, and over valleys, over rivers, and across 
deserts, to release her, to set her free. 


But all this happened once on a time, years ago. 
Now the Queen’s Daughter is grown up. She is 
big. And the King’s Son is grown up. He is big. 
And we two are seated in such a way, so pitilessly, 
that we cannot even see one another. Imagine 
it to yourself! On the right of his majesty sat 
the King’s Son. On the left of her majesty sat 
the Queen’s Daughter! . . . And we recited the 
“Haggadah,” my father and I, at the top of our 
/ voices, 25 once on a time, years ago, page after 
page, and in the same sing-song as of old. And my 


263 


Jewish Children 


mother and Busie repeated the words after us, 
softly, page after page, until we came to the 0 
of Songs.’”’ I recited the “Song of Songs’ together 
with my father, as once on a time, years ago, in the 
same melody as of old, passage after passage. And 
my mother and Busie repeated the words after us, 
softly, passage after passage, until the King of the 
night, tired out, after the long Passover ceremony, 
and somewhat dulled by the four cups of raisin 
wine, began to doze off by degrees. He nodded for 
a few minutes, woke up, and went on singing the 
‘Song of 5089. He began in a loud voice: 

‘‘Many waters cannot quench love.” .. . 

And I caught him up, in the same strain: 

“Neither can floods drown it.” 

The recital grew softer and softer with us both, 
as the night wore on, until] at last his majesty fell 
asleep in real earnest. The Queen touched him 
on the sleeve of his white robe. She woke him with 
a sweet, affectionate gentleness, and told him he 
should go to bed. In the meantime, Busie and I 
got the chance of saying a few words to one another. 
I got up from my place and went over close beside 
her. And we stood opposite one another for the 
first time, closely, on this night. I pointed out 
to her how rarely beautiful the night was. 

‘On such a night,” 1 said to her, 16 is good to 
go walking.” 

She understood me, and answered me, with a 
half-smile by asking: 

204 


This Night 

“On sucha night ye. 

And I imagined that she was laughing at me. 
That was how she used to laugh at me, once on a 
time, years ago. . . . I was annoyed. 1 said to 
her: 

“Busie, we have something to say to one an- 
other—we have much to talk about.” 

“Much to talk about?” she replied, echoing my 


words. 
And again I imagined that she was laughing at 
me. . . . I put in quickly: 


“Perhaps I am mistaken? Maybe I have noth- 
ing at all to say to you now?” 

These words were uttered with so much bitter- 
ness that Busie ceased from smiling, and her face 
grew serious. 

“Tomorrow,” she said to me, ‘‘tomorrow we 
iat אע‎ pain 

And my eyes grew bright. Everything about me 
was bright and good and joyful. Tomorrow! 
Tomorrow we will talk! ‘Tomorrow! ‘Tomor- 
row! .. 

I went over nearer to her. I smelt the fra- 
grance of her hair, the fragrance of her clothes— 
the same familiar fragrance of her. And there 
came up to my mind the words 01 the ‘Song of 
Songs”’: 

‘Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honey- 
comb: honey and milk are under thy tongue; and 


the smell of thy garments is like the smell of 
Lebanon.” . . 


205 


Jewish Children 


And all our speech this night was the same— 
without words. We spoke together with our eyes— 
with our eyes. 


“Busie, good-night,” I said to her softly. 

It was hard for me to go away from her. The 
one God in Heaven knew the truth—how hard it 
was. 

‘““Good-night,” Busie made answer. 

She did not stir from the spot. She looked at 
me, deeply perplexed, out of her beautiful blue 
‘‘Song of Songs’’ eyes. 

I said “‘good-night”’ to her again. And she again 
said ‘‘good-night” to me. My mother came in and 
led me off to bed. When we were in my room, my 
mother smoothed out for me, with. her beautiful, 
snow-white hands, the white cover of my bed. And 
her lips murmured: 

“Sleep well, my child, sleep well.” 

Into these few words she poured a whole ocean 
of tender love—the love which had been pent up 
in her breast the long time I had been away from 
her. 1 was ready to fall down before her, and kiss 
her beautiful white hands. 

‘‘Good-night,’*® 1 murmured softly to her. 

And I was left alone—all alone, on this night. 


I was all alone on this night—all alone on this 
silent, soft, warm, early spring night. 

1 opened my window and looked out into the open, © 
at the dark blue night sky, and at the shimmering 
266 


This Night 
stars that were like brilliants. And I asked myself: 

18 it then true? Is) i¢'themtrueh 27). 

“Ts it then true that I have lost my happiness— 
lost my happiness for ever? 

“Ts it then true that with my own 8209 1 took 
and burnt my wonderful dream-palace, and let go 
from me the divine Queen’s Daughter whom I had 
myself bewitched, once on a time, years ago? Is 
it then so? Is it so? Maybe 16 is not so? Per- 
haps I have come in time? ‘I am come into my 
garden, my sister, my spouse.’”” . 

I sat at the open window for a ak time on this 
night. And I exchanged whispered secrets with the 
silent, soft, warm early spring night that was full— 
strangely full—of secrets and mysteries. .. . 

On this night, 1 made a discovery— 

That I loved Busie with that holy, burning love 
which is so wonderfully described in our “Song of 
Songs.” Big fiery letters seemed to carve them- 
selves out before my eyes. ‘They formed themselves 
into the words which 1 had only just recited, my 
father and I—the words of the “Song of Songs.” 
I read the carved words, letter by letter. 

“Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the 
grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath 
a most vehement flame.” 

On this night, I sat down at my open window, and 
I asked of the night which was full of secrets and 

mysteries, that she should tell me this secret: 
“Ts it true that I have 1098 Busie for ever? Is 
Mithen true 7). .{ 

But she is silent—this night of secrets and 


267 


Jewish Children 


mysteries. And the secret must remain a secret for 
me—until the morrow. 

‘‘Tomorrow,” Busie had said to me, ‘‘we will 
talk.” 

Ah! Tomorrow we will talk! .. . 

Only let the night go by—only let it vanish, 
this night! 

This night! ‘This night! 


THE END 


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